


the wolf king and the lion warden

by LittlefingersMustache



Series: A Ballad of Wolves, Lions and Stags [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Game of Thrones - Freeform, M/M, Rommen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-05-24 04:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 28,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14947817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittlefingersMustache/pseuds/LittlefingersMustache
Summary: In Westeros, the Starks rule the Seven Kingdoms, and the Baratheons rule the North. After the sudden death of most of his siblings, Rickon Stark ascends to the Iron Throne as king, and calls one member of each house to King’s Landing to pledge allegiance to him. As the representative of House Baratheon, Tommen Baratheon travels to the capital to meet the new king. He expects the king to be cruel, spoiled and nasty — but, in fact, he finds the exact opposite in the Boy King.





	1. chapter 1 — publice coronam regalem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: curly boy gets control of west virginia

“Rickon, your cloak is wrinkled.”

“Who cares if my cloak is wrinkled?” Rickon grumbled, fiddling with the clasp of his cloak. In front of him, Arya reached out and smoothed down the side of his green cloak, her green eyes hooded. Rickon ran his fingers through his hair, but Arya batted his hand away. “Stop that.”

Rickon looked over at his sister. She stood half a head shorter than her, and had hair that went to her shoulders. She was the picture of elegance, in Rickon’s opinion. They were both the last surviving Starks, and today was Rickon’s coronation. 

“You look beautiful,” Rickon told Arya, and she smiled. “Thank you. You look much prettier.” Rickon smiled and laughed. “Thank you. Although I think Sansa would be the prettiest of all of us.”

The siblings were quiet for a moment as they remembered their parents and siblings. Their father, King Eddard, had been the first to die; killed by a mutiny in Oldtown when he went to visit the maesters. Rickon’s brother Robb was crowned, but only briefly, as his mother and brother were killed at The Twins during a wedding banquet by House Frey. Bran, only days away from being crowned king, had gone insane from his gift of greensight and killed Sansa, her husband, Ramsay, their young child, and his own direwolf, Summer. Before the Kingsguard could arrest him, he crawled to a window and threw himself out of it, committing suicide. 

Rickon and Arya were the only Starks left. After the Greensight Massacre, as Bran’s actions were called, Rickon, the prince consort, begged for mercy. The people of King’s Landing were furious that their princess had been killed, but they calmed down enough to accept Rickon as their new king. The people of King’s Landing were the least of Rickon’s worries; it was the uprising that killed his father. 

They had matched from Oldtown to Highgarden, massacring as they went. They forced House Tyrell to bend the knee and join their rebellion in chains. Right now, as Rickon was getting primped and preened for his coronation, the rebellion was marching on King’s Landing. 

An attendant walked into Rickon’s room and bowed. “My lord, it is time.”

Rickon sucked in a breath and looked over at Arya. She nodded and slipped her arm into Rickon’s, and the attendant led them out of the room. 

Soon Rickon stood in front of a hall of people, all staring at him and expecting him to know what to do. He gulped as the Royal Steward finished his speech about the Seven. 

“All hail His Grace, Rickon of House Stark and Tully, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

A shock of cold zipped from Rickon’s head to his knees as the icy cold crown was placed on his head. He gasped in a silent breath, and nearly missed the Steward yelling, “Long may he reign!”

The chamber echoed with the cry, and Rickon looked around at his new subjects, taking in their smiles and cheers. He spotted Arya in the front of the crowd, clapping and cheering the loudest. Rickon took a step back, and then sat down onto the Iron Throne. Like the crown, it was icy cold, and he shifted uncomfortably, squaring his shoulders. 

One by one, the high ranking nobles tittered up to him and bowed, and then went back down to join their houses. Rickon nodded at each of them in turn, trying to keep a straight face. 

All through the ceremony, Rickon had one thought on his mind: Who would be his Hand? Women, if he remembered correctly, could not be the Hand of the King, so Rickon had to scratch Arya off his list. So that left...no one, really. Arya was the only person in Westeros he trusted anymore. He sighed as the last noble walked down the steps. 

The reception later even longer, and Rickon had to pretend to enjoy it. He forced smiles and his neck began to hurt from nodding at so many people. As soon as he could, he left with Arya, wanting to get away from everyone. 

“Arya, who do you think should be my Hand?” Rickon asked his sister as they walked down the drafty hallways of the Red Keep. Arya took a moment to think. “I’m not sure,” she said. “You’ve told me before that I was your first choice, but women and be the Hand. If he were still alive, I’d say Ramsay, but-“

“I wouldn’t choose Ramsay, and you know it,” Rickon objected. “I forgave him for his actions and let him marry Sansa, and I believe he was a good man, but I wouldn’t want him with that much power. He could go all-“ Rickon waved his hands around his head. “-again. I’m not going to forget what he did to me anytime soon.”

Arya sighed. “I expected that rant. I understand. Here’s what I think you should do: call one representative from each high house in Westeros to pledge allegiance to you, to bend the knee. Out of those assembled, you could narrow it down to one house, and then summon them here, and pick one of them. Easy, right?”

Rickon sighed as they reached his door. “Yeah, I guess. I’ll think about it. Good night, Arya.”

Arya did a cheeky little bow. “Good night, your grace.” She said, smirking, as she walked away. 

Rickon rolled his eyes and retreated back into his room. He set his crown down in the bedside table and stared at it for a while, thinking about how much power the gold circlet held. After a little bit, he climbed into bed and went to sleep, but his dreams were plagued with Sansa, Ramsay, and Bran’s screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm rereading this a few weeks later and holy moly this is short sksksk


	2. chapter 2 — somnium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title for chapter 2: curly boy thinks about the jackie otp

Rickon dreamed of his sister. 

Sansa had been the crown jewel of the Stark family, in her red elegance and picturesque manners. She would have made the model lady for any man — but she chose Ramsay Bolton, a bastard, of all the men in Westeros. 

The Starks has always had a feud with the Boltons — the Boltons were rich and powerful, yet still power-hungry and vain. The head of their house, Roose Bolton, had been close to Queen Catelyn before she died. Ramsay had been Roose’s bastard son, but he was legitimized around the time of Robb and Catelyn’s death. Before Ned died, the Boltons had visited King’s Landing, and Rickon hadn’t liked Ramsay one bit. He was cold, calculating, and everything the youngest Stark disliked. Sansa, however, saw through his icy armor and came to love him, somehow. 

After Ned died, and when Robb and Catelyn had left for the Twins, the Boltons took advantage of the chaos in King’s Landing. They kidnapped Rickon and scattered Sansa, Arya and Bran, with Arya fleeing to Essos and Bran disappearing south, supposedly to Dorne to hide from the Boltons. Sansa had gone to the Vale to live with a mysterious lord Rickon had never heard of. 

Rickon still remembered the year he spent in the Bolton’s captivity, cold and miserable at the Dreadfort. He was barely fed, and was left without blankets or warm cloaks to sleep with, and developed hyperthermia soon after arriving. Rickon surely would have perished if it hadn’t been for a servant girl that snuck him stale bread from the kitchens, along with wine and water to quench his thirst. Her face had long faded from Rickon’s memory, as hunger and thirst will deprive you of any memories at the time, but he remembered some sort of scar on her face. 

If starving and freezing wasn’t bad enough, he was forced to watch Ramsay kill his own father after he was declared legitimate. He remembered the bloodstained dagger in Ramsay’s hand as he turned to look at the youngest Stark, with a face that said, “You’re next.”

But the most terrible thing Ramsay did was when he handed Rickon the chance to escape, and he didn’t take it. 

He recalled being summoned to the top of the walls of Dreadfort, shaking violently from the cold and hunger. He was skinnier than usual, with his cheek and collarbones sticking out like veins on a flower. He remembered Ramsay’s nonchalant smirk as he told Rickon to run from him to the end of the wall, and to jump off. If he survived, he could go free. 

Rickon had thought it was a trap. He thought Ramsay was playing with him. He knew that if he tried to jump, he’d die. His only pastime in his drafty room was to watch the snow fall outside, and it had made him an expert on predicting the weather and a skilled astrologer. 

Rickon had refused his offer. So Ramsay had smiled pleasantly and ordered his men to take Rickon to the end of the wall, and stand him with his back to the dark-haired Bolton. Rickon had been sure that he was going to push him off the wall himself. He had thought that exact thought until he saw the arrow go through his chest. 

Rickon had screamed and screamed. He had collapsed on the cobblestones, writhing in pain and bleeding everywhere and screaming. It had hurt so much, more than anything Rickon had ever experienced. Ramsay had shoved Rickon right back into his room and left him to bleed out on the floor. Rickon knew enough about wounds to leave the arrow in, so that he wouldn’t loose more blood. He swam in and out of consciousness for two days, not eating or drinking anything. The servant girl failed to sneak into his room to feed him for two whole days. 

After those two days, Rickon finally fell into a coma. It was peaceful, in a way, to be away from the pain. In his feverdreams, Rickon was a huge black wolf, hunting and howling and running as he pleased. He ran all the way to the Twins and watched his brother and mother be killed. He raced to the Eyrie and saw Sansa bathing in riches. He loped his way to Dorne and saw Bran learn how to use his greensight. He swam all the way to Essos and watched Arya become a skilled assassin. 

When he finally emerged from his coma, the pain of his wound was gone. It had been replaced by the pain of hunger and thirst, and Rickon had still writhed on the floor, foaming at the mouth and spreading his dry lips until they cracked in hoarse screams. 

He barely remembered the day he had been rescued by the Knights of the Vale, led by Sansa and Arya, the latter of which had returned from Essos. Sansa had later explained to Rickon what had happened: after the Knights had overwhelmed the Bolton forces and taken Dreadfort, Sansa had ordered a full search of the stronghold for Rickon. She had found him slipping into death on the floor of his room, his eyes already glazing over and the skin around his wound red, tight, and shiny. She had told him that she held him like a baby, thinking that he was already dead, and had cried more than she had ever cried in her life. She said that she had thought she had lost her baby brother, her tiniest sibling — until Arya had confirmed he was still alive. Alive and fighting to stay that way. 

After more than a year of neglect, Rickon was overwhelmed with attention. He was nursed back to health by his sisters, and when he had finally woken up, their faces had been the first thing he saw. 

After that, Sansa had called him her little fighter, while in truth the experience had left Rickon eternally weak and with horrible PTSD. Bran had come back from Dorne soon after, and the siblings reunited in King’s Landing to mourn the loss of their mother and brother together. They had brought Ramsay back to the capital as a prisoner, and, surprisingly, he had begged for mercy. Rickon was ready to kill him, but Bran was in charge now that Robb was dead. Bran had seen how much Ramsay and Sansa loved each other, and let him live, only if he renounced his position as head of House Bolton and married Sansa peacefully. He did, and Rickon (very slowly) came to trust the Bolton bastard. 

The full trust had come the day that their daughter, Rhoswen, was born. Rickon had been told that his sister had gone into labor and had rushed to her room, only to find the door locked and with three other men waiting at the door — Bran, who was in his wheelchair, Ramsay, who was pacing, and Gendry, Arya’s best friend. It was there that Rickon realized that Ramsay really did have a soul that could love and care and want to protect Sansa. From that moment on, he trusted the Bolton to protect his older sister. 

Soon after, Rickon became the third one to hold his niece. He instantly adored her dark ginger locks and large blue eyes, her high giggles and her tendency to wrap her tiny fingers around Rickon’s thumb. 

Rhoswen had been days away from her first birthday when Rickon had found her, Sansa, and Ramsay all dead on the ground of their room. Witnesses who had not been killed reported that Bran had skinchanged into a servant and attacked Sansa, who had been holding Rhoswen at the time. Ramsay had fought the attacker off and had been the first to die. Sansa had turned her back to Bran and had curled herself over her child, only to be stabbed sixteen times in the back and left to bleed out on the floor, still alive in time to watch Bran kill her daughter. Summer had arrived then, but had been slaughtered soon after Rhoswen. 

Rickon still had nightmares of his sister, niece, and brother-in-law’s bloodied bodies on the ground. Nightmares like the one he had tonight. 

Rickon woke up screaming, the image of his sister’s dead body fresh in his mind. His arrow wound still throbbed with pain and it had started to bleed again. Rickon pressed a hand to his chest and tried to control his breaths. 

The door to his room swung open and Arya lunged inside, her eyes wild as she clutched a dagger in her fist. The two siblings stare at each other in bewilderment. 

“It happened again,” was all Rickon could say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a Tommen chapter, but every time I tried to write it, it came out terrible, and I wanted to clear the whole Ramsay/Rickon rivalry up sooner rather than later. And plus my friend would have killed me if I didnt write a RamSan flashback in the first 5 chapters skskskksks


	3. chapter 3 — iter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title for chapter 3: golden boy gets sent to a hot boarding school in west virginia

“I don’t want to go to King’s Landing.”

“You have to.” Cersei said sternly as Tommen’s servants hurried around him, getting him ready for his journey to the capital. “You’re our delegate for King Rickon’s summons.”

“Why can’t Joff or Myr go?” Tommen asked, holding out his arms in a sort of  
t-pose as one of the seamstresses fitted his sleeves. Cersei pursed her lips. “Joffrey is much to hostile. Myrcella is too naive. Your father is too drunk to read, and I have to stay here to take care of Winterfell.”

“What about Uncle Jaime or Uncle Tyrion?” Tommen asked, frowning at his itchy sleeves. Cersei sighed in an exasperated way, but Tommen ignored it. “Jaime or Tyrion aren’t going. Your grandfather is going as representative of House Lannister.”

Tommen wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like Grandfather.”

Cersei swatted at Tommen’s face. “Don’t say that,” she said. “He’ll hear about it and give us a hard time.”

“I don’t care,” Tommen said, when in reality, he did. He feared Grandfather and dreaded his visits from Casterly Rock. He just liked the thrill of the thought of defying his cranky relative. 

“Come on, now,” Cersei said briskly, herding him off the small wooden box he had been standing on and out into the hallway. “You’d best be leaving now.”

Tommen seemed to shrink at his mother’s comment. His mother was always snapping at him and making him feel bad about himself, but the fact that his own mother wanted him gone from Winterfell more than his brother made his heart ache. He longed for his mother to love him and did everything he could to make her, but nothing he did worked. 

Tommen stepped out into the courtyard and was met by a small group of people — his father, siblings, uncles, and a small plethora of guards. Tommen reluctantly stepped forward to the first person in like, which happened to be his father. 

Robert slapped him hard on the back. “Do well, boy,” he rumbled. “Make that bastard hate us more than he already does. Submit to no one. Oh, and pick up a few girls while yer there, eh?” He winked at Tommen drunkenly. 

Tommen nodded shakily and continued on to the next person in line. To his relief, it was his uncle, Tyrion. Tommen stood a few feet taller than him but knelt respectfully in front of him so they could speak eye to eye. 

Tyrion took Tommen’s hand. “Don’t listen to your father,” he said in a wise voice. “You’ll be fine in King’s Landing. An advisor will be going with you to guide you. You will be perfectly fine.”

Tommen nodded and hugged his uncle tight, and then went to his other uncle. 

Uncle Jaime hugged Tommen with a ferocity that the blonde had never experienced before. No one, not even Myrcella had hugged him like this. When Jaime released him, he met Tommen’s eyes and spoke lowly. “I love you, Tommen.” He said, and Tommen could have sworn he saw tears in his uncle’s eyes. “Take care of yourself.”

Next in line was Joffrey. The older blonde sneered down at his youngest brother and rolled his eyes. “A shame they didn’t pick me to go,” he said mockingly. “If I had gone, I would’ve had all of those delegates bend their knees to me. Even the bastard king, for that matter.”

Why does everyone keep calling the king a bastard? Tommen thought as he got himself away from Joffrey and turned to his sister. Myrcella smiled warmly at him and hugged him. “Take care, little brother,” she said, cupping Tommen’s face in her hands. “Please write me as soon as you arrive. I want to hear all about King’s Landing.”

“I will,” Tommen promised, holding his sister’s hand tightly as he pulled away. Cersei didn’t come over to say farewell. Tommen thanked the Old Gods. He couldn’t stand another moment of family hostility. 

He climbed into his carriage and sat down, watching as he was pulled out of Winterfell’s walls and down the muddy road. No one ran to the gates or went on top of the wall to wave him a final goodbye. Tommen felt more alone than he had in a long time. Stretching out on the seat, Tommen lay down and dozed off. 

-

A week had passed. Tommen looked up from his book as he heard a trumpet blast, and he scooted over to the window, watching the large gate of King’s Landing soar by. His heart jumped in his chest when he saw the Red Keep, looming over all the tinier houses. 

It took another hour to traverse the roads of the capital and come to a stop in front of the castle. Tommen was helped out of his carriage and left to wait for his advisor. 

It gave him time to think. Was Rickon really a bastard? To the normal person, one would say, “of course not. Ned Stark would never betray his wife!”

Maybe they meant it in some other sense? There were rumors of the king’s weakness and tendency to fall ill, but anyone would be weak after being prisoner of a Bolton, right?

Tommen had a lot of time to think before his advisor, a skinny man with blonde hair and long legs, came to fetch him. Tommen, along with a crowd of delegates and advisors, were led into the throne room to wait for their private audiences with the king. 

Tommen expected either two things — for the king to be noticeably frail and sickly, or to be noticeably cruel and cunning, like Joffrey was. From watching people from afar at banquets and nameday feasts, Tommen was an expert at interpreting expressions and body language. 

After another half hour of waiting in silence, a page marched in and announced, “all rise for his Highness the King, Rickon Stark of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Those who had been sitting stood, and those who had been standing stiffened. Tommen held his breath. 

The king entered the throne room quietly, a girl a few years older than himself walking behind him. He was nothing like what Tommen had imagined. He was tall and skinny, and his cheekbones stuck out noticeably, but Tommen wasn’t expecting the fluff of curly brown hair that nearly drowned the crown. He wasn’t expecting the look on the young king’s face as he looked around the room. 

It was fear. 

Rickon sat down into the Iron Throne and everyone sat back into the seats that had been set out. The girl next to Rickon did not sit, and merely stood next to him, looking fierce. 

The page unrolled and long parchment and called a name. “Delegate from House Arryn: Dextan Arryn.”

Tommen watched as a man a little older than Tommen walked up the steps and knelt in front of Rickon, before having a short conversation with him. Dextan then retreated down the steps and the page called another name, but not before Tommen noticed the worried glance Rickon and the girl shared. 

Name after name was called, and Tommen soon realized he must be near or at the bottom of the list. Yet soon enough, after the delegate from House Martell, his name rang loud and clear through the chamber. 

“Delegate from House Baratheon: Tommen Baratheon.”

Hundreds of pairs of eyes swiveled to look at Tommen as he shakily stood and wakes to the steps. Rickon had been looking away when Tommen’s name was called, and when he turned back and saw the young boy standing in front of him, his eyes widened. 

Tommen knelt deeply. “Your grace,” Tommen said, every instinct his father had drilled into his head screaming at him to defy the other boy. “Tommen Baratheon, of Houses Baratheon and Lannister.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to be so young,” Rickon blurted, and then he seemed to realize what he said and his cheeks flushed dark red. “I-I mean, um, s-sorry. Um. What are you hoping to accomplish with this visit?”

Tommen was so lost in the other boy’s eyes he seemed to forget the king had spoken. His eyes reminded Tommen of the sea on a stormy day — on the one time Tommen had visited the Iron Islands, it had been stormy, and Rickon’s eyes reflected the dark, crashing caps — dark, dark gray with hints of blue and green. 

“U-Um, to serve you, s-sire.” Tommen stammered. Rickon wetted his lips before nodding briskly. “Good. Arya, would you—“

“No, hold on,” Arya said, narrowing her eyes at Tommen. “What is your mother’s name, Lord Baratheon?”

Tommen’s mouth went dry to hear his mother spoken of here. “Cersei Lannister,” he replied. Arya seemed to bit the inside of her cheek. “And your father’s name?”

“Robert Baratheon.”

Arya leaned forward and whispered something inaudible in Rickon’s ear. Rickon seemed to be incapable of hiding his emotions, unlike Arya, as his eyes went wide and he turned to Arya. “You’re kidding”. He whispered. 

Arya shoved him roughly with her shoulder and cleared her throat loudly. “You are dismissed, Lord Baratheon.”

Tommen bowed awkwardly and descended down the steps, back to his seat. Soon enough the delegates were excused back to their rooms to retire for the night. 

As Tommen lay in bed, he couldn’t stop thinking of Rickon’s ocean eyes and how they had widened at whatever Arya had uttered in his ear. He tossed and turned, unable to go to sleep, until finally he sat up and lit a candle, pulling on a warm fur coat. It might be hot here during the day, but at night the breeze brought a chill. 

Tommen roamed the halls and no one stopped him. He tried several doors but most of them were locked. He wanted a room with a balcony, so he could have some fresh air. Finally he tried a knob and the door swung open. 

Cautiously stepping inside, Tommen set his candle on the dresser near the door. The room was beautifully finished, with a poster bed with long, blue drapes, and dark wood furniture. What intrigued Tommen the most was the bassinet in the corner, rocking eerily in the wind that blew in from the window. 

Tommen went over to it and found that it was empty. The bed, too, was unoccupied, and from the layer of dust Tommen found on the furniture, it had been like that a long time. 

Tommen was so intrigued by a painting of a red-haired woman on the wall that he didn’t hear the door creak open, yet he jumped when he heard a hoarse, “What are you doing in here?”

Tommen whirled to see Rickon standing on the doorway. 

“Your grace,” Tommen stammered. “I-I’m so sorry, I was just trying to find a balcony to get some fresh air—“

“This was my sister’s room,” Rickon interrupted, taking a few steps inside. “Hers, and her husband’s, and her daughter’s.” He nodded over at the bassinet. “They were murdered in this room, you know.”

Tommen gulped. The room suddenly felt much colder than it already was. 

“My brother, Bran, killed them, along with his direwolf.” Rickon said, his words monotone as if he were pulling them out of a book. “Then he crawled to the mat balcony behind you and jumped.”

Tommen swallowed thickly. “Oh.” Was all he could say. 

Rickon met Tommen’s eyes, and again the blonde was struck speechless by his stormy eyes. “You said you wanted a room with a balcony?” 

“Y-Yes.” Tommen stammered. “I mean, that’d be nice.”

Rickon nodded and looked back over at the picture of his sister on the wall. “Consider it done. Tomorrow night I’ll give you a room with a balcony.”

Rickon looked over at Tommen. “You look really cold.”

Tommen shrugged. “I’m used to worse.” It felt weird, talking so casually with the king. 

Rickon smiled, and fireworks seemed to explode in front of Tommen. This, this is what he had wanted for his whole life — someone to smile at him as if they wanted him, for someone to smile at him as if they cared. That was the exact smile Rickon was giving him. 

“I’ll show you all the best balconies in the palace,” Rickon said, taking a few steps backwards toward the door, his stormy eyes become mischievous. “But only if you can keep up.”

Rickon bolted out the door and left Tommen alone in the cold, dark room. Tommen thought about what his father had said, about defying and never submitting to the king. Tommen thought about this as he walked to the door. With a genuine grin, Tommen shook his father off in the form of his robe and took off after Rickon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT THE HECC THIS IS RLLY LONG
> 
> ugh it’s almost 12 am and I should really sleep, I’m not supposed to be on my phone. Updates will definitely be slow this week as I’m expecting to get my phone taken away ayyyyye


	4. chapter 4 — impetus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title for chapter 4: FILLER FILLER FILLER FILLER

“You’ve seriously never tried chocolate?”

Tommen shook his head, looking up from his book. Rickon sat on the bed next to him, asking him questions. The king’s eyebrows raised. “Chocolate is the best. There’s a lot of candy makers down in Dorne, and we get shipments of chocolate, lemon tarts, and this new thing called taffy. It’s basically this super stretchy candy, and it gets harder if it’s cold.”

“I’ve had lemon tarts before,” Tommen said, rolling over into his stomach. “One time the Tyrells were visiting Winterfell, and they brought a bunch of treats.”

“They’re my favorite,” Rickon sighed. “Taffy is pretty good too.”

It had been two days since Tommen arrived and there were still some straggler delegates coming in. Tommen’s grandfather still hadn’t arrived. Tommen didn’t know whether to be worried. 

“All this talk about food is making me hungry,” Rickon said, standing up. “Would you accompany me to the dining hall?”

Tommen cheekily took his arm. “Why, i’d be honored,” he said, and they swept out of Tommen’s room. 

The hallways were unusually quiet. Tommen didn’t know why. Rickon seemed to be on edge as well, which concerned Tommen even more. 

Suddenly there were pounding footsteps behind them, and Rickon turned around fast, as did Tommen. It was Arya, running towards them with a frightened expression. “Rickon, get somewhere safe,” she said breathlessly, her eyes wild. “The Keep is under attack.”

Rickon’s arm fell slack in Tommen’s. “By who?” He asked immediately. 

Arya shook her head. “Don’t know yet. I’m going out to fight, but get somewhere safe, both of you.”

Then she was gone, and Rickon was pulling Tommen into the room closest to them. The room was dark and Tommen couldn’t see much, but Rickon led him to a corner and immediately slumped down with his back to the wall and brought his knees to his chest. 

Tommen knelt beside him. “We’ll be okay,” Tommen assured him. “It’ll be over soon.”

He noticed how much Rickon shook as the shouts of people rose up and came through the window. Tommen didn’t realize that the Stark boy was so close to him until a rock hit the window and Rickon wailed, suddenly burying his face into Tommen’s shoulder. 

Tommen froze. He didn’t know what to do in this kind of situation. He never had to comfort anyone before, so he tried to comfortingly pat Rickon’s back. The brunette began to cry into Tommen’s shoulder, one arm wrapped around his neck and the other under his arm. Tommen swallowed thickly and held Rickon tighter as more projectiles hit the window. 

After what seemed like hours the shouts died away and things stopped hitting the windows. Rickon slowly untangled himself from Tommen, looked sullen. 

“Rickon, are you okay?” Tommen asked gently, not daring to touch him. Rickon took a moment to answer. 

“He used to throw things at me.” He whispered finally, not meeting Tommen’s eyes. “He would make me try to stand up and then he would throw rocks and sharp pieces of ice and dull knives at me.”

Rickon held out his arms and Tommen didn’t want to look down at them, but eventually he did. The Stark boy’s arms were covered, absolutely covered, from sleeve to palm with scars. Some of them looked like the remnants of bruises while others looked like full-blown battle scars. Tommen’s breath hitched. 

“He wouldn’t even care.” Rickon said softly. “He would watch me bleed and he would laugh. There was no sign on pity in his eyes.”

Tommen shifted into a more comfortable position. “Who was it?” He asked quietly. 

Rickon finally raised his eyes to look at Tommen. “Ramsay,” He whispered. “Why did I forgive him, Tommen? Why didn’t I jut let him kill me? If he had Sansa would have been alive, and Bran wouldn’t have gone insane and Summer would still be alive and the kingdom would actually be safe-“

Tommen put his had over Rickon’s mouth. “Rickon, you are the best Stark king Westeros will ever have,” He said. “Trust me. You are smart and brave and you know what you’re doing.”

Rickon sniffled. “Really?”

Tommen nodded. “Really.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter that really doesn’t mean anything!!!!
> 
> next chapter Tywin is going to barge in and ruin everything these two have built smh


	5. chapter 5 — mirum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title for chapter 5: pantene model arrives to take over west virginia

Rickon felt quite stupid. 

When he had woken up the morning after the attack, his arrow wound bleeding yet again, he had nearly slapped himself. He had let his greatest weakness slip — the fact that he was terrified of battle, any kind of battle. He wrapped new bandages around his wound and got dressed, and went back out to the throne room. The last of the delegates were arriving today.

He was paraded in with Arya close by him, and when he sat everyone else did as well. The page began to call names again and Rickon had quick, short conversations with all of the delegates. Every time a delegate was walking away, Rickon would stare at Tommen, whose back was to him. 

Finally the page got to the bottom of the list and called, “Delegate of House Lannister: Tywin Lannister.”

From the corner of Rickon’s eye he saw Tommen jerk around to stare at the white-haired man in something that looked like horror. 

For the past three days Rickon had thought the only thing the blonde Baratheon was scared of was talking in front of people, as whenever he spoke in front of more than two people his voice shook. He had seemed so carefree and happy here. But today Rickon learned something new about his blonde acquaintance. 

He was mortified of his grandfather. 

Tywin Lannister mounted the steps and knelt in front of Rickon briskly. “Your grace,” he said in a voice that radiated authority. “Tywin Lannister. An honor to be in your presence.” 

Rickon sensed that this man had been around the block before in politics. Rickon dipped his head respectfully to the man. “Of course. Where do you reside in your house?”

“I am the head of House Lannister, Your grace,” Tywin said. “I hope to be selected to be your Hand. It would be a great honor to my family.” Without Rickon even dismissing him, the old Lannister turned and descended the steps. 

Rickon leaned over to Arya. “I didn’t like him.”

Arya shook her head. “I didn’t either. He seemed creepy.”

The page was rolling up his paper and Rickon was prepared to go back to his rooms, perhaps talk to Tommen about his grandfather, but the doors to the throne room blew open and Rickon froze, halfway through standing up.

Three people marched into the throne room. Two women and a man. The first woman had long blonde hair and piercing violet eyes, and wore a long, billowy white dress. The woman beside her had her frizzy hair pulled back from her face with a gold headband, and wore a top with sparse fabric and a long skirt, and had her hands folded respectfully in front of her. The man had a shaved head and dark skin, and stood rigid and tall on the blonde woman’s right.

The blonde marched right up the stairs to stand in front of Rickon. She curtsied deeply, as did the Valyrian woman on her left. The man remained standing. 

“Daenerys Targaryen, of House Targaryen,” She announced loudly, her voice carrying throughout the chamber. “I come from Essos to compete for the place as your Hand.”

Rickon was speechless. The Targaryens were supposed to be dead. All of them had been supposedly wiped out by Ned’s Rebellion, although there were whispered rumors that the two remaining Targaryen heirs had escaped to the eastern continent. So she must be one of them. 

Daenerys gestured to the woman beside her. “This is Missandei, my translator and advisor. And this is Grey Worm, my personal bodyguard.”

Rickon still couldn’t find his voice and was relieved when Arya stepped forward. “You were not summoned back to Westeros to be part of this gathering, Lady Targaryen. Women are not permitted to be Hand of the King.”

“My brothers, Rhaegar and Viserys, are dead.” Daenerys said evenly, not batting an eye at Arya, who was a head shorter than her. “I am the last surviving heir to House Targaryen. The summons sent out was that one person from each High House in Westeros attend. House Targaryen is, in fact, a High House of Westeros.”

“House Targaryen was exiled-“ Arya began, but Daenerys quickly cut her off. “I don’t want to hear from you,” she snapped, then regained her composure and looked at Rickon. “I want to hear your king speak.”

Rickon swallowed and took a swift glance around the room, and saw Tommen, staring at Daenerys and her entourage with wide eyes, which Rickon deciphered as fear. 

He drew himself up to his full height. He wanted to make Tommen feel safe. He didn’t want him to feel scared. Rickon resisted the urge to reach up and run his fingers through his hair, but it would knock his crown off and make him seem nervous, which he certainly didn’t need right now. 

Daenerys’s demand for him to speak wasn’t what worried him. It was why she was here. Arya seemed to know it, too, and stayed tense even after the blonde shut her down.

“My sister is right,” He said strongly. “House Targaryen was not invited to be part of this competition and will remain that way. Women cannot compete to be Hand.”

Daenerys inspected her nails with one eyebrow quirked up. “You are still on the fence about it?” She said, looking up at him and pinning him with that violet gaze. The corner of her mouth went up. “Then maybe I will give you a demonstration of my power that I could share with you, your grace.”

She raised one hand in the air and looked at Rickon confidently. Rickon was about to say that he didn’t see anything, but then he heard the screeches. 

He looked around, trying to figure out what she was doing. Was she killing everyone with her mind? Was she summoning all the palace rats to her in one big wave? What in Westeros was she doing?

A shadow fell across the hall. 

Rickon looked up and saw the dragons. 

Three of them, small but loud, flew in from the open windows on the roof. One was red, another yellow, and another green. One of them swooped in front of Rickon and he stumbled back, obviously terrified. Arya caught him, her hands firm and tight around his arms. 

The dragons landed in front of Daenerys, looking proud of their performance. Daenerys looked slyly over at Rickon. 

“Are you still on the fence?” She asked. 

The words slipped out without Rickon realizing. “Yes, Lady Targaryen, I am. Threats mean an immediate elimination, anyway.”

Rickon gave her a glare and turned and stormed out of the hall, his red cape flapping out behind him. There was a screech of chairs as the rest of the delegates stood and began to talk amongst themselves. 

Arya caught up with Rickon. “What do you want me to do with our...unexpected guests?” She asked, her brown eyes wide with worry. 

“Escort them back out to some boats so they can crawl back to Essos,” Rickon said icily. “Force them out, for all I care. Get them out of my palace.”

Arya nodded a bit guiltily and went back out to the throne room. Rickon sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, knocking his crown off his head. He clumsily caught it and put it back on. He rubbed his forehead anxiously. He needed a break from all the political talk. He needed fresh air. He needed Tommen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rickon with the roAst
> 
> I’ve got all chapters from 6-10 figured out, so I can start writing those really fast without making it up as I go! This is when it really starts picking up, as now we have Tywin, Daenerys, and Tommen all competing to be Rickon’s Hand. Another competitor will join them later, possibly two if I figure out to fit him in ;))))


	6. chapter 6 — studeo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title for chapter 6: the boys cram for dragon finals

Rickon knocked on Tommen’s door, tipping back on the balls of his feet. He was expecting Tommen to be half frozen with fear, of both his grandfather and of Daenerys — but when the blonde opened the door, his blue eyes twinkling. “I knew you’d come around at some point today, your grace,” he said, the corners of his mouth quirking up. Rickon sighed. “I’ve told you not to call me that. Why were you expecting me?”

Tommen leaned against the doorframe. “I suspected you’d want to seek someone out to talk about Daenerys with who wasn’t Arya. I just so happen to be your best friend here, so here I am, waiting patiently for you to arrive.”

“Best friend?” Rickon echoed, tilting his head a bit. “You think I’m your best friend?”

A bit of color found its way into Tommen’s pale cheeks. “I mean, only if you want me to address you that way. I’ve never had a best friend before.”

“Never had a best friend?” Rickon said, his eyebrows raising. “That’s a horrible way to live.”

Tommen laughed. “Alright. What do you want to go do, anyway?”

“I want to go to the library,” Rickon said, pushing himself off the wall. “I want to read about the Targaryens and what really happened to them.”

“Well, your father overthrew the last Targaryen king,” Tommen pointed out as they walked down the halls. “Haven’t you heard enough about them?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Rickon replied, brushing some curls out of his eyes. “My father seemed to regret killing King Aerys. They weren’t friends at all, mind you, and just didn’t like the way he ruled. And, the king killed his father and brother, so obviously he had a grudge against him, but whenever he talked about it, he seemed to regret it. Especially when he talked about King Aerys’s children.”

“Why do you think that is?” Tommen asked as they entered the library. It was large, three stories tall, and filled to the brim with bookcases. Tables were set out in between the walls of books, with ink and quills nearby. 

Rickon led Tommen over to the history section. “I’m not sure. But that’s what we’re here to find out.” Rickon ran his hand over the spines of a few books and pulled one out, titled “The Targaryen Dynasty.” He looked up at Tommen, cracking a smile. “Let’s get to it, then.”

The next two and a half hours, Rickon and Tommen pored over dozens of books, taking notes and pointing out holes in plots and plans and criticizing how inbred the Targaryens were. It was nearing dinner time, and Rickon was reading about Aegon’s Conquest for about the twentieth time, when Tommen made a surprised sound. “Hey, Rickon, come here,” he said, beckoning him over. The king got up and went around the table, peering over Tommen’s shoulder at what he was reading. 

Tommen toward him, holding the book out. “This book is about Ned’s Rebellion, but there’s a section on the recent Targaryens. It says here that Aerys had three children — Rhaegar, Viserys, and Daenerys. There’s another section just about Rhaegar. He apparently kidnapped your aunt, Lyanna Stark.”

“Oh, Aunt Lyanna.” Rickon had heard many stories about his late aunt; his father had always said that she was beautiful and similar to Arya. He had been Ned’s only sister. “Father never talked about her.”

Tommen set the book on the table and pointed. “It says here that Rhaegar annulled his marriage to Elia Martell and married someone else.”

Rickon’s eyebrows raised. “You think that Aunt Lyanna got married to Rhaegar Targaryen?” Tommen shrugged, looking up at Rickon. “I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

But Rickon was shaking his head, crossing his arms. “No. Aunt Lyanna was engaged to your father — Robert Baratheon. Then Rhaegar kidnapped her and raped her, and then he killed her at the Tower of Joy, in Dorne. Rhaegar wasn’t anything special or heroic; the Targaryens killed my aunt, an innocent girl.”

Tommen remained silent, staring down at the page. Finally he spoke. 

“Do you think Daenerys is really here to be your Hand?” He said, looking up at Rickon with dark blue eyes. Rickon shook his head, biting at his cuticle. “Absolutely not. She’s here to take the Iron Throne.”

Tommen’s eyes widened. “She’s here to usurp you?”

“More than likely.” Rickon replied, looking at some more books on the shelf. “I saw how she looked at me. Your grandfather looked at me like that, too. I know that look, because I see it all the time. People want my power.”

“But why?” Tommen asked, and Rickon turned, ready to retort about how stupid that question was, but the blonde continued. “I’ve only just met you, and I can tell you despise having all this power. I’m good at reading emotions. You display yours very well.”

Rickon pursed his lips and looked away. Another weakness — he painted his emotions on his face like a painting in a museum. He was trying to get better at it. Arya was great at it, but Bran was always the best at it. After he returned from Dorne, he always had the same expressionless face. 

Rickon looked back at Tommen to see the blonde looking up at him, several unidentifiable emotions dancing in his eyes. Rickon noticed several things: Tommen was looking at him with pride, admiration, and something else. Something that Rickon hadn’t felt, ever. He wetted his lips and tore his gaze away from Tommen. He couldn’t feel anything for Tommen. Tommen was just a contestant here to try to be Rickon’s advisor. Rickon sighed and ran his fingers through his curls. “I’m going down to dinner. You can stay here and study, if you want.” Rickon turned and left, not waiting for an answer. That feeling that he got whenever he looked at Tommen now was sickening. It felt good and bad, light and dark at the same time. Rickon shook his head to clear it. He had better things to worry about...

...right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretty short lil chapter, but now the lovey dovey stuff starts happening!!!! Tbh I am very surprised that no one has asked about our favorite black haired Stark bastard yet. ;)


	7. chapter 7 — lupus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate title for chapter 7: remus lupin comes out of the woods and attacks local canadian

Tommen ate dinner in his room. He could tell that Rickon felt uncomfortable around him, yet he wasn’t sure why. After dinner, he went out to his balcony to try and eat some fresh air, but he still felt clammy and pent up. Grabbing his cloak, he pulled it on and went out to the stables, where the horses he had brought waited. He mounted his favorite horse, Lyrebird, and trotted out of the courtyard, going towards the king’s wood. 

He led Lyrebird for a while, relishing the cool breeze blowing in from the ocean. He had dismounted to cut some flowers off their stems to send back to Myrcella when he heard the low growls. 

He stood up, clutching the flowers and the knife he had used close, looking around. Were there wild wolves in the forest? Shouldn’t the delegates be warned of that in case they want to go pick flowers for their sisters?

Tommen turned in a full circle three times, and the growling just got louder and louder. Getting nervous, Tommen held out his knife. “Who’s there?” He called. “Show yourself.”

A large gray mass suddenly lunged out of the bushes and tackled Lyrebird. Tommen’s horse screamed but was cut off by a sickening cracking noise. Tommen screamed and fell back, dropping the knife and the flowers. 

In front of him stood a massive wolf, bigger than any he had seen up north. It was gray, with dusting sod white and black. When it swung around to face Tommen, he locked gazes with dark golden eyes. 

Tommen made a terrified noise and scooted back into a tree. The gray wolf bared its teeth and stalked closer, Lyrebird’s blood staining its fur and jaws. The bushes rustled as two more direwolves slid out of the brush to join their companion. One was cream and white, and had golden eyes. The other was noticeably smaller and was completely black, and was the only one with shining green eyes. 

The lead wolf took a few steps close and opened its jaws, ready to rip Tommen’s limbs off one by one. Tommen put his arms over his head, waiting for the end. 

But then-

“NYMERIA!”

Tommen opened his eyes and the gray direwolf turned, its ears flicking back. Tommen looked over to his left to see Arya storm out of the bushes, her eyes on the big wolf. She glanced over at Tommen, then Lyrebird’s corpse, and hurried over to Tommen, holding a hand out for him to take. 

“I’m so sorry about your horse,” she said, pulling him to his feet. “Nymeria and the others don’t like strangers.”

“One of the wolves...is yours?” Tommen asked, a bit dazed. Arya nodded. “Yes. All of us have—had one.” She nodded at the one who had killed Lyrebird. “That’s Nymeria. She’s mine. The cream one is Lady, and she was Sansa’s before she died. The black one is Shaggydog, Rickon’s direwolf.”

“What happened to the others?” Tommen asked, and Arya sighed, sitting down and motioning for Tommen to sit down beside her. He obliged, and the direwolves seemed to relax. Nymeria lay down in the corner of the clearing, and Lady lay down in a patch of sunlight, grooming her fur. Shaggydog stayed where he was, looking at Tommen with a curious expression. 

Arya began. “My father got us direwolves when he went up north to visit your father, Warden of the North. While out hunting with him they found six direwolf pups. He brought them back home and gave them to us. Robb named his Grey Wind, Sansa named hers Lady, I named mine Nymeria, Bran named his Summer, Rickon named his Shaggydog and our oldest brother Jon named his Ghost. 

“We all loved our direwolves a lot. They’re the sigil of our house, you know. They’re on our banners. When Jon went to go join the Night’s Watch, Ghost went with him. After my father died and Robb became king, Grey Wind went with him and my mother to the Twins for the wedding banquet everyone now knows as the Red Wedding. When they killed Robb they murdered Grey Wind as well, and they sewed the direwolf’s head into Robb’s body and paraded it around the streets.”

Tommen nearly gagged. 

“The direwolves scattered after Rickon was kidnapped and we all left. Summer went with Bran down to Dorne and Nymeria ran off to the Riverlands and made a huge pack of wolves there. Shaggydog and Lady were both sent to the Iron Islands to be safe with our friend Theon Greyjoy. After we all are back, Theon returned Lady and Shaggydog, am so then we had three. Nymeria returned a few months later but preferred to stay in the forests rather than the Red Keep.”

Arya sighed deeply, her eyes growing sad. “Then, Bran committed his Greensight Massacre. He killed Ramsay, Sansa, and Rhoswen, and after he killed the baby Summer rushed in, attacking his own master. Bran had killed him and left him on the floor. I was actually in the kennels with Lady and Shaggydog when it happened; Lady was practically in hysterics, if that can happen to a direwolf. None of us knew what was happening with her, but we suspect that we have very tight bonds with our direwolves. That’s one example, and also Theon Greyjoy told us that the whole time he was with Shaggydog, he was going practically ballistic, barking and not eating and attacking anyone who came near him.”

Arya sighed again. “After the Greensight Massacre the kennelmasters locked up our direwolves. Back then we didn’t know Bran had killed them; we all thought it had been Summer. But then the witnesses finally came forward and we learned the truth.” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “It had been our own brother.”

“I’m sure you get this a lot, but I’m sorry,” Tommen said, wishing he could do something to console her. Something wet touched Tommen’s cheek and he turned, nearly shouting out loud. Shaggydog had shoved his muzzle right in Tommen’s face, sniffing him all over. Arya laughed from behind him. “Shaggydog must like you,” She said, and Tommen placed a hand on Shaggydog’s head. The direwolf’s large tail began to wag, and Tommen smiled. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said, scratching the big black wolf. 

“He must smell Rickon’s scent on you,” Arya said. “He knows that the king trusts you.” When Tommen didn’t reply, she spoke again. “Are you fond of Rickon, Tommen?”

Tommen nodded, turning away from Shaggydog and looking over at Arya. “Yes. He’s the first best friend I’ve had, probably ever.” He smiled a bit. “He’s very kind.”

Arya smiled. “He’s fond of you as well. You two hang out a lot.”

Tommen sighed. “Yes, we do.”

Arya stood. “He really likes you, you know. I think you have a very good chance of being his Hand.” She nodded at him respectfully and then walked back into the forest, toward the Red Keep. 

Tommen sat with Shaggydog for a while longer before he realized he had done exactly the opposite of what his father and family had demanded: he had made the king love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m pumping out chapters like a machine gun y’all
> 
> things are starting to get spiCy between the bOis oh boY


	8. chapter 8 — ferantur

Tommen went through a lot of what he and Myrcella called “phases” in his childhood. All of the phases had one thing in common: during every single one, Tommen tried to change himself so that his mother and father would love him. 

As a small four-year-old, Tommen was desperate for attention. He would sit and cry in his room, screaming at the top of us lungs until one of his nannies or maids came in to shush him, but never his own mother. 

At five, Tommen went through his Joffrey-wannabe phase. He followed his older brother, who was ten years old, around n castle, picking on people that he picked on. Joffrey seemed to like having Tommen around, but now Tommen supposed that their mother had told him that young children were very impressionable and let him rub off on Tommen. 

One of their favorite targets was their cousin, Shireen, who was Tommen’s age. They would corner her and tease her about her face and greyscale scar, and say that she was a rabid animal who spread rabies. Shireen would start crying and run to her mother, but she would show her no sympathy, and she wouldn’t even stop the boys when she saw them tormenting her daughter. Tommen doubted Stannis even knew about what Joffrey and Tommen did to his daughter. 

When Tommen was seven, he went through his knight phase. He wanted so desperately to be a knight, and he would go out to train along with Joffrey and some of the older boys. They would easily knock him into the dirt and put their full training swords to his throat, laughing and teasing him. But Tommen would get up and keep sparring with them, again and again, but he could never master the art of the sword. 

His father was never around in his younger years, when Tommen craved attention. But suddenly when Tommen turned twelve (after his “I want to go hunting every single day at dawn” phase), his father was at the castle almost every day, with new wines, foods, and, of course, new whores. They would flock around him like birds, making Tommen feel sick. They would treat him in a slightly motherly way, but it was mostly mocking. They were observant and knew that his parents didn’t favor him and took advantage of it. 

Robert’s sudden return into Tommen’s life have him a spark of hope. He remembered going into his father’s office one day, thinking that surely he would want to see his son after seeing him so rarely in his childhood. Tommen had walked in to see his father making out with some woman Tommen didn’t know the name of. He silently left. They didn’t notice him. 

Tommen slowly learned that the last born of a family is considered the runt. One, out hunting with the men of the court, they found a litter of wild dogs with their mother, who had escaped the kennels. They took the puppies back, and Tommen wanted to keep the smallest one for himself. He was already calling her Daisy when one of the men took the puppy and slammed its tiny body into a tree, remarking that the runt was useless. 

Tommen feared the same thing would happen to him. After Joffrey succeeded his father, he would be ruthless, most likely killing anyone who would be a danger to his throne. That meant that Tommen and Myrcella would be in danger. Myrcella protected Tommen the best she could from her parents and brother’s backlashes at them. 

As Tommen got older, his mother and father took notice of him, but not in a way that he wanted them to. Everyone around the castle had remarked at least once that Tommen was much more handsome than his brother and that Myrcella was much to stubborn and naïve to be married anytime soon. Cersei began discussing marriage plans openly at dinner, making Tommen feel terribly uncomfortable. He would fake sick whenever his mother called him to her chambers to talk about potential brides. Tommen didn’t want to get married — he had been fourteen and had thought that all the responsibilities were given to the oldest children. But Joffrey’s reputation as a sadistic heir and Myrcella being the stubborn girl she was had spread across Westeros. The three Baratheon children. Joffrey was sadistic, Myrcella was childish. And then there was the youngest, that no one heard about: Tommen, sweet, loving, kind Tommen. 

Tommen learned to be quiet. Talking would get you into trouble, as he had seen in Myrcella. He spoke very little and answered questions truthfully and in short. He didn’t make small talk and if someone tried to make it to him, he would avert his eyes and keep his mouth shut. 

His mother criticized him for being so quiet and impressionable. She said that if he was going to be a good husband, he would have to be firm in his ways. Like Myrcella? he had asked, and then ran from the room when his mother swatted at him. 

His grandfather also looked down his nose at Tommen. He said openly that Tommen was too weak and too gentle. Tommen preferred being this way, as it gained the trust of others easily and made him not feel so isolated. Grandfather would test the Baratheon children — Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen, and Shireen — on smarts, swordplay, and battle tactics, even the girls. Shireen always got the highest scores on the smarts tests, which Tommen didn’t understand. She was a girl, wasn’t she?

Behind Shireen, Tommen usually got second place. If it wasn’t Tommen it was Myrcella, and if it wasn’t Myrcella it was Joffrey. The three of them were unpredictable in their places, but Joffrey usually found himself in fourth place, which enraged him. 

Swordplay was the fun part. They got to spar with each other, and Tommen was always paired with Myrcella. Since she was a girl and didn’t get any sword practice, Tommen usually overwhelmed her easily, but she was fun to fight. She was small and lithe, making her movements quick and agile. She relied more on speed than brute strength. 

Shireen and Joffrey’s battles would go on forever. Joffrey was a skilled swordsman but always liked to dress up for the sparring matches, and his clanky, bejeweled armor made it hard for him to move. Like Myrcella, Shireen was small and could move fast, and she had a great advantage over Joffrey’s slow movements. Tommen played close attention to her movements and found her tactic — she went for the legs, and if she had been using a real sword, Joffrey would have been crippled long ago. 

Battle tactics was the other fun part. They were each given the same scenario and they had to figure out how to place their troops and win battles. Joffrey always exceeded at this, with Tommen close behind in second place. Myrcella usually came in last, and Shireen in third. 

The battle tests were fun, but nothing compared to the real thing. Tommen once joined his father and brother out to watch a bloody skirmish between Baratheon and Bolton troops. Tommen remembered almost throwing up at the sight of so much blood, and the disdainful expressions on Robert and Joffrey’s faces. 

So Tommen had remained in the background — a quiet, yet ever present figure. He stood at the back at parties and banquets, becoming an expert at reading faces and emotions. He could tell what a conversation was about from across the room. He was a silent yet knowledgeable force. 

He had seen love from far away. His father was always surrounded by it, by that was a lustful kind of love. He had seen no love in his mother’s eyes when she looked at Robert. The only time he had seen love directed toward him was from Myrcella and his Uncle Jaime. But even then, he had been seeing them less and less, until he had even isolated in a life without love. He had forgotten what it felt like, what it looked like. 

He didn’t remember what love was. 

So why did he see a familiar look in Rickon’s stormy eyes whenever he looked at Tommen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last 2 chapters have been really boring I know but that’s because the big stuff is happening in chapter 10 and I needed new things to happen. I needed the bois to slowly slide into each others DMs 
> 
> At first I really didn’t like this chapter but it got better once Shireen came in (if you can’t tell I l0ve my greyscale Queen) and she’s going to became more relevant later eeee


	9. chapter 9 -- mortem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: BITCH DONT DO IT

Rickon stormed through the halls of the Red Keep twisting his fingers together. He was stupid, stupid, stupid. Arya had warned him about this --this awful feeling. He’d only felt it a few times before, and when he did, it was a mutual kind towards his family. But he hated it. It made him feel warm inside when he should feel cold.  
He should save love for when he’d be married. He knew it would come eventually. He’d be married to some wealthy, highborn woman so he could produce heirs to keep the line of succession going. It was normal for a king to take mistresses — his father hadn’t, he wouldn’t’ve been unloyal to Catelyn — but people like Tommen’s father did. Unjust people. But what kind of king took another man to warm his bed?  
He barged into his room and collapsed onto the bed, trying not to cry. Kings didn’t cry. In this world the ones who cried died. Tommen’s going to die, chimed his brain as soon as the words came into his brain. Tommen cries. He’s going to die. There’s nothing you can do, little king. The shy stag is going to die.  
Rickon sat up and let his feet rest on the ottoman. He propped up his elbows on his thighs and held his face in his hands. A fourteen-year-old boy as king — no wonder the people rebelled? Their country was in the hands of a child barely into manhood. He was no king. Arya was really the king — she whispered Rickon’s every decision into existence. He was grateful for her, yes, but he felt like it would be betraying her to not take her advice.  
He found himself growling into his hands. Being king was harder than he had thought. Oh, why couldn’t Arya just pick a Hand for him? No, no, Rickon’s brain pestered, Arya can’t do everything for you. You’re king. There’s no queen. There never will be. Westeros doesn’t have queens.  
“Maybe she does,” Rickon grumbled. He took off his crown and set it on the bed next to him. Looking at it, it made his job look so picturesque — a king sitting lazily on his throne, eating dates and passing laws with a flick of a wrist. Oh, how much harder it was than the storybooks let on!  
His mind wandered. He began to recall of legends and myths and songs Catelyn had told him. The Knight of the Laughing Tree, one of his favorites. The Dance of Dragons. And his father’s favorite, even though it made him sad, the story of Lady Ashara Dayne.  
He wished he was a valiant knight who could just sit and watch jousts and tourneys all day. But he suspected there was more to being a knight than he suspected. Maybe a secret blood oath? Were you sworn to celibacy, like the Kingsguard?  
Thinking of the Kingsguard made Rickon nearly scream. After he chose his Hand he had to elect men to be in his royal guard. There was just choice after choice, wasn’t there? Didn’t he have any time to himself?  
Yes, his mind whispered yet again. Right now. You could do anything you like right now.  
Anything you’d like.  
Anything you’d like.  
Anything you’d like.  
Rickon got up, picking up his crown and walking over to the balcony. It was a nice view of the harbor. He liked sitting out here on clear, cool days, letting the wind ruffle his hair. But today was overcast and humid. Today he wasn’t enjoying the balcony at all.  
The only enjoyment was when the crown left his fingers and he watched it fall into the courtyard below.  
He stood at the railing for a while, thinking. Thinking about Tommen, and Daenerys, and Tywin and Sansa and Ramsay and Arya and Rhoswen. His mind slipped into well-worn tracks of worry and regret. He subconsciously slung his leg over the railing, the regret and the death and the blood blood blood blood crowding into his mind. His other leg followed suit and he was standing on the outside of the railing. A hot wind buffeted him. He stared down at the courtyard below. The sun peaked warily out from the clouds as if it didn’t know if it was allowed to come back. In the weak sunlight, he could see his crown in pieces on the bricks below.  
He imagined what it would be like to hit the ground that hard. Surely you’d die.  
Surely you’d die.  
Surely you’d die.  
Surely you’d die.  
Surely you’d die surely you’d die surely you’d die surely you’d die surely you’d die.  
The blood roared in Rickon’s ears as he hit pavement and the world spun away, fading into a fuzzy blackness.

A/N because my notes don't work that well:  
Hi hi hi everyone I'm back! It's Thanksgiving break and IM GOING TO FINISH CHAPTER 10 THIS WEEK AND START ON THE NEXT FEW CHAPTERS!!!! Chapter 10 is where it really really REALLY starts getting h*ccin wild so I will probably post it by the end of the week. I'm going to my grandmas for Thanksgiving and won't have the wifi to login there, but I can write without wifi. Also I know this is very short but it covered everything I wanted it to be about: Rickon's inner turmoil as he spirals closer to psychotic depression. Also, there is a HUGE foreshadowing for book 2 in this chapter.


	10. chapter 10 -- caldium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: squidward doesn't get lost, king of west virginia gets laid

Rickon was still asleep. It was black inside his head, and he kept feeling like he was spinning. Around around around around. He could hear voices, but they were muffled, as if he was underwater. Was he underwater? He wasn’t sure. The last time he had been swimming was a couple years ago, just before Ned traveled to Oldtown. He had taken all of the children down to their private beach to swim and play in the waves. Rickon recalled seeing dolphins jumping in and out of the water from afar.  
The voices slowly, slowly became clearer, like he was getting closer to the surface of the water. His mind seemed to hesitate below the waves, contemplating whether it should continue to tread water or break into the air, until it felt like there was a geyser at Rickon’s feet, pushing him up, up, up out of the water.  
He gasped and sat up quickly, panting as if he really had been underwater. His spine and his legs screamed in objection to his sudden movement. He watched his chest heave, stormy eyes wild.  
The people who had been talking appeared. Two maesters who frequented the Keep that Rickon hadn’t learned the names of yet. Aryanstood next to them anxiously, her hands grasping the blanket. And, to Rickon’s surprise, someone he hadn’t seen for a long time: a young man with curly, grey-brown hair, and an expression that looked forever worried. He wore traveling clothes; a leather chestplate covered with a gray cloak with the emblem of a kraken sewn into it.  
“Theon?” Rickon gasped, his lips refusing to make entire sentences. One of the maesters gently put his hands on Rickon’s shoulders and pressed him back down onto the bed. “My lord, you just rest,” he said in a creaky old voice. “You fell nearly three stories.”  
“I...I fell?” Rickon murmured groggily, his mind still trying to recover from the fierce waves. “Where did I fall?”  
“From your balcony,” Arya interrupted before the maester could say anything. “Rickon, how did you fall? I’ve never seen you go close to the railing. You’re as nimble as Bran was before his accident — what happened?”  
Slowly the memories came back. The regret and the death and the blood blood blood blood blood. The warm wind buffeting him, pressing his legs closer to the railing. The sight of the sunlight catching in the shattered pieces of his crown as he descended towards them.  
“I jumped,” He murmured. “I jumped. From the balcony.” A weight like a thousand stags crashed down on him at once. “I jumped! I jumped I wanted to die! I should’ve died! I should’ve died!”  
He began to thrash, yanking the blankets off of himself. Arya and the maesters scrambled to hold him down. Bright arcs of pain shot through his body and his vision turned red. There was a soft thump on his head, and then he was back underwater again. 

 

When Rickon woke up again, the room was mostly empty. Theon occupied a chair next to the bed, and he had changed into more casual clothing. Rickon tried to sit up but some sort of metal ring around his waist kept him from doing so. He struggled for a moment before giving up. His arms, legs, and trunk ached badly.  
“Are you going to go crazy again?” Theon asked in a deadpan, turning something in his hands. Rickon saw that it was a key on a ring. He glanced up from the key to examine Theon’s face. He wasn’t looking at him.  
“Why are you here?” Rickon asked, his voice raspy. “You’re not here to compete to be my Hand, are you?”  
Theon barked a laugh that made Rickon’s head hurt. “Oh, no. Yara and I heard about this whole contest thing and just wanted to come give you some support. Arya can’t juggle everything, you know. But it looks like we came at a bad time.”  
Theon looked up at Rickon. “If you don’t mind me asking, Rickon, why did you jump from your balcony?”  
“Well, I do kind of mind,” Rickon growled, shifting uncomfortably in his metal ring. Theon shrunk back a little. “It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me. But can I guess?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “You tried to kill yourself because you don’t want to be king, right?”  
Theon’s answer was so right Rickon didn’t really know how to respond. A sad smile crossed his friend’s face. “I know the feeling. I’m Yara’s Hand, so I have to have a lot of responsibility at court. Sometimes I’ve looked at the ocean and wanted to drown myself. But I stick with it. Even with ups and downs there’s always something good that comes out of it.”  
He stood up, tossing the key he held at Rickon. It landed on his stomach but his arms hurt so much he didn’t move to get it. “That’s the key to the metal ring, by the way,” he said. “I hope you feel better.”  
He left the room, leaving Rickon to stare at the key in silence. 

 

For a broken collarbone, a broken humerus, two fractured ulnas, a sprained ankle and a broken femur, Rickon healed fairly quickly. He was up and walking around the halls with either Arya or Theon as an escort within two weeks. After about a month he decided it was time for an elimination.  
“Rickon, you’re still not that well,” Arya said. She was helping him get ready in his room. A new crown sat upon his head and he had ordered a new, blood red cloak for the event. He clasped the cloak together with a pin shaped like a direwolf and turned back towards his sister. She was looking at him with worried eyes. “You still limp and you can still barely raise your left arm. Let’s just wait for this, okay?”  
“Arya, we already have everything ready,” he soothed her. “We can’t just back out now.”  
She looked like she wanted to argue but said nothing. He knew what she was thinking; if he tried to kill himself because he didn’t want to be king, then why should he try to enjoy it?  
“I’m ready,” he said, offering his sister his elbow. She took it and led him out of his room.  
He knew exactly who he wanted to stay. One, just to keep war at bay. Another, because Rickon was curious about him. And the other — Rickon knew exactly why he was keeping him.  
All the delegates rose as Rickon walking into the Great Hall with Arya. He spotted Tommen immediately, and he could tell by the worried look in his eyes that he was anxious. Rickon hadn’t seen him for the last four weeks. It seems only reasonable Tommen wanted to see him.  
Rickon sat down on the throne and tried to stand tall. His chest ached and he ignored it. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice ringing roughly around the chamber. “Today I will be eliminating all but three of you.”  
A uncomfortable murmuring swept through the hall before it was silenced by an icy glare from Arya.  
Rickon’s gaze found who he was looking for. “Daenerys Targaryen, you will be staying at the Red Keep.”  
Daenerys lifted her chin and nodded, gratitude flickering in her violet eyes. She had become more passive the last month or so, less demanding and more willing to help Arya out on tasks, especially after Rickon’s attempt and Arya had been practically running the country for the past month.  
Rickon’s eyes swiveled to find the second contender. “Tywin Lannister, you will be staying.” The old man bowed respectfully and sat back in his chair, obviously satisfied with himself.  
Finally Rickon laid his gaze on the honey blonde sitting in the middle of the room. “And Tommen Baratheon,” he said softly. “Tommen Baratheon will be staying.”  
Surprise flashed in Tommen’s gaze before he nodded shakily.  
“The rest of you will travel home tomorrow, unless you would like to travel through the night,” Rickon called, standing. “But all of you are welcome to stay for the feast we have set up for you in the Feasting Hall.”  
Most of the men surged forward towards the Feasting Hall, but some stayed, probably the ones who would leave tonight. Among those left were Daenerys and Theon. They walked briskly over to Rickon, casting surprised glances at each other.  
“My lord, why did you keep me here?” Daenerys said before Theon could say anything. “The people will be angry you kept a woman here to compete for your Hand. No king has ever had a female Hand before.”  
“Did I confirm I was going to pick you, Lady Daenerys?” Rickon said coolly, meeting her violet gaze. She pursed her lips and then nodded, staring at the ground.  
Theon spoke. “Yara would like to speak with you tomorrow morning, if possible. She prefers to stay in her ship than come ashore.”  
Rickon nodded. “Of course. Go on to the feast, Arya and I will follow.” The two of them bowed and hurried off, jostling each other as if they were fighting for space in the large hall.  
Rickon then turned to Arya. “Don’t be worried if I’m not at the feast. I want to have a little bit to myself before I join the festivities.”  
Arya nodded, understanding. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Tommen joined you.” She began walking away, and then stopped, turning back to smile at him. “Tommen really fancies you, Rickon. I can tell that you’re happy with him.” She took a few steps back and clasped Rickon’s hand, squeezing it gently. “If you want him as your Hand, just pick him. Don’t drag the contest on for too long. I can tell you fancy him as well.” With a final smile, Arya walked away towards the celebration. 

 

Sure to Arya’s word, Rickon found Tommen swiftly. He was outside the Feasting Hall, staring in from a door. He didn’t notice Rickon was standing next to him watching the men make merry, eat and swap stories until he turned to leave and jumped back with a squeak.  
“Oh, it’s just you.” He sighed. Rickon raised his eyebrows. “‘Just’ me?” He echoed. “Am I just a peasant to you now?”  
Tommen’s eyes widened. “No! No, of course not, I just meant—oh, it was a joke.” His voice turned deadpan and he rolled his eyes as Rickon burst out laughing.  
“Walk with me,” Rickon said as soon as he had gotten his giggles under control. The two set off at a slow walk, regarding the stony walls in silence. It wasn’t long before Rickon realized they were in front of his door.  
“We can sit in here,” he said. “I don’t like loud parties either.”  
They sat down on Rickon’s bed and talked quietly about things they had before. They spoke of their siblings and how they disliked some and loved others. Rickon found himself rambling about Robb for about three minutes before he stopped.  
The boys sat in silence before Rickon spoke. “Tommen, have you ever been in love?”  
Tommen looked startled. “Me? Oh, well, I don’t know. When I was seven I thought a stable girl was pretty but I never saw her again because her parents moved farther south. All I’ve ever thought was looks. I’ve never really considered personality.”  
“What do you think of my personality?” Rickon asked, absentmindedly rubbing his chest.  
“Well, I think you’re amazing.” Tommen said, getting a faraway look in his eyes. “You’re kind and considerate, things I never really had back in Winterfell and only experienced when I visited my uncles at Casterly Rock. You love animals, like my sister, but you actual own some and remember to feed them. She had a pet fish that died four days after she got it because it starved to death. You include me and make me warm and bubbly inside.”  
Rickon raised an eyebrow. “‘Warm and bubbly?’”  
Tommen shoved him lightly, careful not to hurt him. “You know what I mean.”  
“Oh? What do you mean?” Rickon asked, leaning just a tad bit closer. It was close enough to see a blush spread across Tommen’s cheeks. “W-Well, I feel warm and bubbly when the stable girl smiled at me. And I feel it when Uncle Jaime or Uncle Tyrion hugs me. I feel it whenever I look at you.” He looked up at Rickon. They were so close Rickon could see every individual eyelash on Tommen’s eyelids.  
“What do you call that feeling, Tommen?” Rickon asked, his breath stirring Tommen’s hair. Tommen swallowed and blinked three times, meeting Rickon’s gaze.  
“I think its called love,” he breathed.  
Rickon leaned in and kissed him.  
Fireworks.  
Tommen’s lips were as cold as ice but tasted like the perfect ripe apple. He felt a thump on the blankets next to him and a weight was taken off of his head. Tommen must have thrown off his crown as he ran his fingers through his hair. They kissed until Rickon’s lungs practically burst and they pulled apart, panting.  
“Seven Gods,” Tommen panted. “Rickon, you-“  
“Yeah, I kissed you,” Rickon said breathlessly. “And I’m going to do it again.”  
He tackled Tommen this time, slight pain racing through his legs, but he ignored it. Tommen wrapped his arms around Rickon’s neck, giggling underneath Rickon’s lips. After a moment Rickon pulled away slightly and kissed him right on the corner of his mouth, and the proceeded to plant kisses all over his face. Tommen laughed aloud and wriggled underneath Rickon pulled away breathlessly.  
“How do you know how to do this?” Tommen asked, his face flushed.  
“I lived at Dreadfort for a year,” Rickon said. “If there’s one good thing about Ramsay Bolton, it’s that’s I picked up some tips from him.”  
This time Rickon dived underneath Tommen’s chin and kissed him all over his neck. The blonde squealed and laughed, and Rickon grinned against his skin.  
After he had marked Tommen’s throat as his territory, he sat up, panting and thinking of what to do next. Tommen looked up at him expectantly, his hands up next to his head.  
“Aha,” Rickon said, ducking down again, but this time he pulled Tommen’s golden shirt aside and began to kiss his pale chest. Tommen squealed and Rickon felt his skin flush hot underneath his lips and fingers. His fingers found the hem of his shirt and they began to crawl up his stomach, and Tommen made a strange little sound Rickon liked. Finally he pulled away and yanked the shirt off of Tommen’s top, leaving his pale body half-exposed.  
His chest and stomach were terribly pale. Didn’t they get any sunlight up north? He ran his fingertips over his skin before reaching down and lightly putting his lips right above his belly button and beginning to suck.  
“R-Rickon!” Tommen gasped. “T-that tickles!”  
Rickon grinned and moved on to suck on different places until his while stomach was covered in purple-red marks.  
“Much better,” Rickon said. Tommen blushed, and then he sat up, kissing Rickon on the lips again. Tommen’s cold fingers ran up and down his sides, as he had found a way into his navy tunic. Rickon made small little whiny sounds as Tommen coaxed his cloak and tunic off of him. Now Rickon was exposed as well. He was much tanner than Tommen but had freckles all over his chest and stomach. He felt his own face get red as Tommen looked him over. Then, instead of leaving marks on his stomach, he leaned down and began sucking on his chest.  
Rickon continued trying to control his moans but really couldn’t. Tommen’s kisses were just too perfect, how could he even begin to compare his? Suddenly he felt a tug at his waist and the cold air hit his calves. He looked down to see that Tommen had yanked off his pants and he was just in his blousy breeches. The blonde looked at him innocently.  
“Why, you little-“ Rickon growled playfully, surging up and tackling Tommen again. The boy squealed in delight as Rickon ripped his trousers off of him and left him in similar breeches. He reached for them, seeking revenge, but Tommen grabbed his wrist. “Rickon, no,” he said. “No farther than this. I’m—I’m still—“  
“A virgin?” Rickon finished for him. “Sure, me too. We won’t, I promise.”  
Tommen came up to kiss him again, and all the pain that was absently throbbing in Rickon’s joints faded away. He and Tommen rolled around on the bed, kicking up the blankets and sending his crown clattering to the floor. They kept trying to whisper seductive suggestions at each other but they were drowned out by whines and kisses.  
Finally, the two exhausted lovers collapsed onto each other, their bare chests heaving as they stared into each other’s eyes. Rickon pulled Tommen closer and the blonde out his head on Rickon’s shoulder.  
“I love you,” Tommen said. “Forever and always. I’ll never stop loving you.”  
“Even when you’re living here as my Hand and you have to take a wife?” Rickon asked, watching Tommen’s head rise and fall on his chest. Tommen looked up. “You’re going to make me your Hand?”  
“Of course,” Rickon said. “I learned tonight that Lady Daenerys is worried about being the first female Hand and might rethink her idea to usurp me. Tywin — oh, I’m just keeping him around because I want the people to think that I’m having a hard time choosing. But it’s been you all along, princess.”  
Tommen blinked quizzically. “‘Princess?’”  
Rickon grinned. “Can I call you that?”  
Tommen snorted. “Only in bed.”  
“Ah, so you accepted my invitation to be my mistress!” Rickon said. “Mister? What’s the male form of mistress?”  
Tommen laughed. “Don’t go telling everyone that I’m your mistress. We’re lovers. I think we should keep this a secret.”  
“Agreed,” Rickon said. “Who knows what the public will do if they find out they have a homosexual king?”  
Tommen laughed and just snuggled closer to Rickon. Rickon sighed, enjoying the warmth of him on his chest, and then closed his eyes. 

A/N because my notes don't work:  
Yay! Part 1 of this book is done. The next 10 chapters I have planned out down to the bone and I will hopefully get them out quickly. I'll be out of town and have a lot of time on my hands so hopefully, I can write this week. The next chapter is my favorite one i've planned besides the epilouge. The epilouge is my favorite ;D

Also: I added more characters to the characters section. Fun spoilers for part 2! :3


	11. chapter 11 -- coniurationis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: I can HEAR jackie quaking

Tommen rubbed his neck absentmindedly, wondering if his love marks were going to show over his collar. He had begun to wear high collars now that Rickon was leaving his mark on his throat. He didn’t want anyone to see them and question him. They met every so often, mostly after meetings with the king, Daenerys, and Tywin. They were exercises and tests to see how good they were at politics. The Targaryen princess and the lion lord were both quite good, but Tommen was too confident to worry. Rickon had already promised him a place here at court. Rickon would pull Tommen into dark nooks in the wall and kiss him until Tommen couldn’t breathe. He loved it; he’d never been treated like that before and never wanted it to end.   
But now it might have to end because he watched as three dark blue carriages pulled up to the steps of the Red Keep, all of them housing very unhappy family members.   
Tommen watched, rooted to the spot, as his immediate family climbed out of the carriage. Robert looked as large and bad-tempered as ever; Tommen couldn’t read his mother’s expression. Joffrey huffed and crossed his arms, as of he couldn’t stand to see anything grander than Winterfell. Myrcella looked around in amazement, her green eyes big and wide.   
The next to carriages carried Tommen’s uncles, but not the ones he particularly liked. Stannis was as stiff and formal as ever in his somber grey tunic. His bad-tempered wife, Selyse, stomped out after him. Her long hair was braided and she looked around with a sour expression. Following them was Shireen, Tommen’s favorite cousin. She was only a year younger than him at thirteen, and was one of the most beautiful creatures in the Seven Kingdoms (besides Rickon). She had dyed her mousy brown hair blonde a few years ago and her face was round and chubby, her cheeks still large with baby fat. Her grayscale seemed to brighten in the happy southern sun. She looked around excitedly, her arms lifting at her sides.   
The last carriage carried Renly, Tommen’s youngest uncle, the one he didn’t see that much. Robert and Stannis both didn’t like him that much, as he was very down to earth and sarcastic. Tommen had felt overwhelmed by his bubbly energy the few times he had met him. He got along with Shireen just fine.   
He felt nervous to have his family here. It was to help the king learn more about the delegate’s background and find out more about them. Tommen thought Rickon knew plenty.   
“Tommen,” Cersei said lovingly, stepping forward to cup her son’s face in her hands. Tommen reeled back a little. His family had never treated him with such kindness. He gulped and nodded, offering her his arm. They had been instructed about how to enter the Great Hall — they would process in with the contender leading their mother by their arm, with their father on his other side. The eldest uncle would then come next with his family, and the oldest to youngest down the line. Tommen was the only one these rules applied to.   
The procession was also slated on the size of the family, so the Baratheon’s came last. Cersei had to go up and process with Tywin, so she left as soon as they entered the Hall. They waited in the back as Daenerys walked in, flanked by her three dragons. Tommen had learned their names by their color — Drogon was the red and black one, Rhaegal was the yellow one, and Viserion was the green one that jumped whenever there was a loud sound. They seemed to act as he family. Drogon walked next to her as if he were her husband, and Rhaegal tittered beside her like a son. Viserion walked glumly behind them like a brother.   
Tywin and the Lannisters came next. He was leading Cersei on his arm and they all bowed politely to Rickon. Tyrion looked uncomfortable. Jaime looked right at home in the great soaring hall. As soon as they were done Cersei rushed back to grab Tommen’s arm as they began the long walk towards the throne.   
Tommen could see Rickon’s expression change from bored to excited as soon as he came into sight. Tommen fought down a blush. They were supposed to meet in his room after all of this was over. He felt himself walk a little faster.   
At the foot of the steps, Tommen and Cersei stopped, and they dropped low into respectful bows and curtsies. The rest of the clan did the same, but for some reason, a few servants let out loud gasps and mutter.   
What did I do wrong this time? Tommen thought, looking up. Rickon looked confused, maybe a little angry. He was looking to Tommen’s right. He looked and nearly fell over.   
Robert was standing ramrod straight and staring right at Rickon. He had his hand in his sword sheath. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth was twitching.   
Rickon cleared his throat. “Lord Robert, please bow.” He said uncomfortably. Tommen knew Rickon hated giving orders in public — but in bed, he was just fine.   
“I will not bow,” Robert barked to Tommen’s horror. He was frozen in his deep bow, unable to rise. Cersei seemed the same way, as her grip on his hand had tightened. “I will not bow,” Robert repeated, “to a bastard king.”  
Alarmed gasps ricocheted through the hall and this time Tommen really did fall over. He regained his footing and stood, shaking Cersei’s hand loose. “Father, what are you doing?” He hissed through his teeth, but Robert chose to ignore him. Looking back at the throne, Tommen watched as Rickon rose slowly, a shadow cast over his face. Arya slunk out of the dark behind the throne, a similar look on their faces. Tommen recognized it from somewhere, be he couldn’t pinpoint where.   
“What did you say about my brother?” Arya snarled dangerously. Tommen felt himself taking a step back. He felt Cersei tremble next to him. If Arya could strike fear into Cersei, why not Robert?   
But Robert was still standing. He barked a laugh. “Which one? They’re all bastards in their own right. The only trueborn son your whore mother had was that murdering cripple.”  
Rickon’s hands began to shake, and his eyes twitched. Tommen fought the urge to run up there and hug him. That happened when Rickon got anxious, and soon after that, the hallucinations started. Rickon said that it was called psychotic depression.   
“What do you mean?” Arya hissed, taking another step forward, in front of Rickon. An evil smile slunk across Robert’s face. “We all know the rumors. You’re sickly. You can barely rule the country without your sister cleaning up after you. And you’re a coward; what kind of king tries to kill himself? You are weak.”  
“It wasn’t my choice,” Rickon growled. “My brother killed himself and murdered my sister, my brother-in-law, and their daughter. I was the only one left.”  
Tommen noticed that Rickon had referred to Ramsay as a brother-in-law, and not just “Sansa’s husband”.   
Robert cackled again. “The only one left? The trouble started when that stupid boy brother of yours took over after your father was killed. We all knew your mother was the one pulling the strings. He never had a chance.”  
Arya’s face rounded with horror and fury.   
“Bran was the only legitimate one,” Robert said simply. “But after you, you little weakling, got yourself kidnapped by a Bolton, he transformed into some sort of emotionless seagull.” He snorted. “It’s a true shame you got kidnapped, boy. The Boltons are a fool’s house. Full of rapists and murderers. Ramsay was the worst of them; he raped and killed to no end. Some say that he was a witch that seduced all of the women to love him. He probably did the same with your sister, the little dove. He probably kidnapped her, too, and raped her. Then he probably murdered her, and made her watch as he slit the baby’s throat-“  
To Tommen’s surprise, it was Rickon to descended on him, not Arya. He drew a long, zig-zagging sword from his belt and drew it in a long swing. He has told Tommen about his sword — Snowstrike. Snowstrike glinted in the sunlight as it came down in a deadly arc as it sang against Robert’s head.   
Tommen then realized what the Stark children had looked like before. Wolves, he realized. Wolves stalking their prey.   
Robert fell to his knees, keeling and holding the large bash in his forehead. Cersei squealed like a pig and rushed to help him. Most of the other family members did too.   
Tommen looked up at Rickon, his hands shaking in fear. He was close enough to hear him say to Arya, “Now he kneels. Keep him that way.” Then he raised his voice. “Guards, arrest this man for treason against the crown!”  
Tommen gasped in terror as he watched heavily armored soldiers rush forward and shoo the other Baratheons away. They seized Robert by his arms and dragged him away.  
Rickon stormed out without dismissing anyone, Arya stomping after him. Tommen could hear one of his relatives calling him — Myrcella, maybe Shireen — But he took off after Rickon.   
He caught up to him at his door. “Rickon!” He called. “Rickon, wait!” Rickon looked up from the doorknob, his gray eyes dull. That wolfprey look was still on his face. “What do you want?” He growled.   
“I-I just wanted to apologize for my father’s behavior.” Tommen stammered. Rickon had never, ever been this harsh to him before. It scared him.   
“I don’t want your apology,” Rickon snarled. “I want his apology. And that’s not happening anytime soon. Leave me alone.”  
Rickon was about to slam to the door when Tommen grabbed his arm, making him turn around. “Rickon, wait,” he cried. “What about our meeting? Do you-“  
“Our meeting?” Rickon scoffed as if he didn’t know what Tommen was talking about. “We’re done, Tommen. Now I see what you were doing. Trying to seduce me into your family’s wishes. Now leave me alone while I arrange your family’s travel plans back to Winterfell.” He slammed the door, and Tommen could just hear him growl, “Maybe he was right about witches...”  
Tommen stared at the door for a while, before breaking down into tears and sliding down the door, burying his face in his arms. Losing his lover and his father in one day — how would he cope? Then he remembered Rickon had lost a sister, a niece, a brother, a brother-in-law, and a direwolf in one day and had coped just fine, sort of. That just made him cry harder.   
He cried until he felt a very gentle touch on his shoulder. His head shot up, and he expected to see Rickon’s forgiving, stormy eyes gazing down at him from a crack in the door. Instead, he was greeted by soft blonde hair brushing his cheek and dark brown eyes, the color of the chocolate he had shared with Rickon so many weeks ago.   
“Hi,” Shireen said softly. 

a/n because my notes don't work:  
tHe gArgOyLE qUeEn iS hErE LAds


	12. chapter 12 — dulcis frater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: stone mom arrives to save the day

Shireen mopped up his tears her tears with her hair and let him lean into her as she led him down the hall. They came to a courtyard and sat down on the steps. Tommen sobbed into her shoulder for a long time, and when they turned to sniffles, Shireen spoke.  
“Are we going home?” She asked softly. She looked down at him. She had been very energetic before the Rebellion of the Kings started, but near the end of it, she was captured by someone on the Rebellion’s side and held there for over a year. Then, the Knights of the Vale came and liberated wherever she was and she went back to her family. He had visited her twice after that, and she had always been very sullen and quiet.  
“Probably,” Tommen said miserably. “I really messed up, didn’t I?”  
“How was any of this your fault?” Shireen asked. She looked over at him. It was a beautiful, cloudless day with a nice cool breeze chasing servants through the breezeways and gardens. It ruffled Shireen’s hair and got caught in her eyelashes, but she didn’t move to free it.  
Tommen kicked a rock. “Just...you can keep a secret, right?” Even if she was his cousin, Tommen wasn’t sure he could trust her. She seemed so rule-raised that she’d tattle on him to her mother or father as soon as he walked away. But he saw worry in her gaze. “Of course,” She said. “Something’s wrong, isn’t there? Something other than Robert?”  
“Yeah,” He said, and the whole story spilled out. How they met, the night Rickon gave him the new room, the studying, Daenerys, everything. Shireen seemed to never blink.  
Shireen was quiet for a few moments before speaking. “Tommen, I’d never want to do anything to make you unhappy.” She said, looking him in the eye. “If spending time with Rickon and being in love with him makes you happy, that’s completely fine with me. When I saw you this morning it was the first time I saw you smile in a very long time. You were so miserable with your family and Rickon makes you feel at home. I understand that.”  
She looked out into the courtyard, her hair sliding on and off of her shoulders. The courtyard had a beautiful view of the sea. Today small sailboats bobbed in the waves and the sound of children’s laughter was carried up from the beach on the wind. “It’s not my place to tell you what you can’t or can do,” She continued. “I’m not your parents. But I know that you can bring Rickon back into reality. You’re the closest to him and if he’s desperate enough he’ll trust just about anybody.”  
Tommen looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean? You’ve never met him before.”  
A mischievous smile crossed Shireen’s face as she kept gazing out to sea. “I have,” She said. “When I was captured during the Rebellion of the Kings I was kept at Dreadfort as a servant to the prisoners. I helped Rickon and brought him food and water and kept him alive until his sisters could come and get him.”  
She dropped her gaze and stared at her feet. “After Ramsay wounded him, he bolted his door so I couldn’t get in. I even tried the window but I fell and hurt my ankle. I felt so bad that I couldn’t help. I managed to escape in the chaos when the Knights came. I didn’t want credit for Rickon’s survival. That was Sansa and Arya’s to boast.”  
Tommen stared at his cousin. He would have never had guessed that this shy little cousin had saved the King of the Seven Kingdoms from the brink of death. She saw him looking and smiled shyly. “I didn’t want to tell anyone.”  
“I won’t tell,” Tommen promised. “I won’t tell anyone. It just seems like a big coincidence that you two were there at the same time.”  
“Yeah, maybe,” she said. “Come on, let’s walk. You can show me around the gardens.”  
Tommen took her arm and led her through the vineyards and the courtyards, pointing out flowers and fruit that didn’t grow up North. She picked a beautiful peony and tucked it behind her ear, looking more southern than ever. Eventually they emerged from one of the gardens into a patio, and as they walked across, Shireen squealed and bent down, retrieving something from the ground. It was a small amber gemstone, something someone would have had in their jewelry. Tommen realized that this must have been where Rickon jumped from his balcony and his good mood fell slightly. Looking up at the balcony up above, he could have sworn he saw Rickon staring down at him from the window, but when he blinked there was no one there.  
“Perhaps it’s good luck,” Shireen was saying as she tucked the piece of amber into her dress. Tommen forced a smile and they continued their walk, but now a sickening sense of foreboding followed Tommen like a wolf stalking its prey.

A/n because my notes don’t work: sorry this didn’t get published when I wanted it to! I started writing this way back at Thanksgiving but the moment I got back to school I started getting reviews for finals and things like that + my sister came home from college so it’s been very busy! Act 2 of this is much more action-packed and should get written faster than act 1 since I have this all planned out now...it’s just a matter of seeing when I’m able to get time to type and publish it. Hopefully with my Chiristmas break on the horizon I’ll get inspiration to write! I’ll probably write a short Christmas one shot to make up for my lack of posts haha. Sorry this is so short, finals kill!!


	13. Chapter 13 — flores pereunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: king of West Virginia slowly becomes a bitch

It was the day after the Baratheons had arrived in King’s Landing and Rickon was still making arrangements for their departure. Robert would have to be put on trial, of course, before they left, even though it was painfully obvious he had committed treason. He had barely spoken to anyone since yesterday. It had rattled him more than he wanted anyone to know. He wondered if what Robert had said was true — was he really illegitimate? How would he ever know for sure? He contemplated these things as he walked down the halls towards one of the council rooms, where he was holding a Hand meeting with Daenerys and Tywin. Tommen had been excused from any gathering until Robert’s trial.  
Tommen. That was another thing occupying his mind lately. He had thought Tommen was the best thing that had happened to him in a long time. He felt so right when he was with the blonde stag, so at peace. Being reminded of Tommen’s betrayal made Rickon want to break something.  
He was halfway to his meeting when he was greeted with the sound of rushing feet. A few servants rounded a corner and rushed towards him.  
“My lord!” One of them cried. “You’re wanted in the Great Hall at once. It’s very urgent, sire.”  
“Is my sister already there?” Rickon said, keeping his voice even. He was getting better at that — keeping his emotions under control.  
“Yes, my lord,” the servant replied, and Rickon whisked away, speeding up to a steady gait as he neared the Great Hall. He slowed as he entered and went up to Arya, who stood in her place next to the throne.   
“What’s going on?” Rickon hissed, turning his back towards the hall. Arya looked sideways at him. Her expression betrayed nothing. “Something having to do with the rebellion,” she said. “Escapees.”  
As she spoke there was a rumble of voices as two people were escorted down the center aisle. Rickon took his seat on the throne to look them over. It was a young man and a young woman, both looking like siblings, in tattered, once-fine clothes and filthy hair. Their round faces were smeared with grime and their green eyes were dull.  
They stopped at the base of the steps and looked up at Rickon. The girl stepped forward, lifting her chin.  
“My name is Margaery Tyrell, and my brother Loras and I escaped from the rebellion a few days ago,” she said loudly, her voice clear and strong. “We come with information about the rebellion’s plans and their goals.”  
Rickon stood. “How do we know you are not spies sent to learn of our weaknesses?” He said, lifting his chin and returning Margaery’s smart stare.   
Margaery gestured at herself and then at her brother. “Do we look like spies?” She said, laughing lightly. “We are nearly starved. And I do not intend to leave my father and grandmother in the grip of the rebellion.”  
“Then why come here?” Rickon asked.   
“My brother and I cannot infiltrate an entire rebellion by ourselves, no matter what Loras says,” Margaery said. “We need help. Whether it be spies or a full force to face them, we request your assistance to retrieve my father and grandmother from the rebellion’s prisons.”  
“Just your father and grandmother?” Rickon countered. “What about the people of Highgarden?”  
The brunette flushed. “Them as well,” she said. “The rebellion is not something to trifle with. They are more powerful than you think.”  
Loras began to cough and lightly fell into his sister, who grabbed him by his shoulders to hold him up. Rickon motioned for a maester standing nearby. “You may stay at the Red Keep for now,” Rickon said. “Until you and your brother are well. Then we can talk about the rebellion.” Margaery nodded in gratitude and followed the maester and Loras out of the hall.  
“Rickon,” Arya said softly after mostly everyone had left. “You should listen to Margaery. If the rebellion is enough to fell Father-“ her voice broke and she took a moment to compose herself. “If the rebellion was enough to fell Father, maybe we should put the Hand competition to the side for a while. Focus on getting the rebellion out of the way.”  
“No,” Rickon said, picking lint off of his cape. “The competition will remain as it is, but with one glaring exception.” He flicked the lint away. “Within a fortnight Tommen will be back in Winterfell and Tywin will be my Hand.”  
Arya blinked in surprise. “Then it’s over? Just like that? Tywin is your choice?”  
“I guess,” said Rickon. “The people won’t like it if I choose Daenerys just because she is a woman. Tywin is the only choice left.”  
“Rickon,” Arya said gently, “the rebellion is headed straight for King’s Landing. Think of your subjects, Rickon. They’re being killed as we speak. Put the trial and the contest off for a while.”  
“I will not!” Rickon hissed, thrusting his face closer to his sister’s. “Last time I checked, the crown sits on my head, not yours. You need to learn to show a little more respect to your king.”  
“Last time I checked the king was my youngest brother!” Arya retorted. “I have every right to talk to you this way. I’m one person besides Tommen that has the courage to tell you if your head is getting too big for your body.” She turned and stormed off, her gray cloak flapping out behind her.  
Rickon flexed his fingers, wanting to do something. He needed something to do. He guessed he could go back to his chambers and plan for Robert’s trial. A slow, creeping sort of smile spread across his face. It was like his father had always said: he who gives the sentence swings the sword. Rickon used to dread that privilege — but now, as he walked back to his room, he began counting the minutes until he could drive Snowstrike through Robert’s thick neck and watch Tommen’s face break as it was doused in blood.

A/n because my notes don’t work:  
YAY!!!!! Bitch Rickon is my favorite kind of Rickon to write. Also, two chapters in one night!!! Wooo!!!! I love reading y’all’s comments, they literally make me jump around my room and squeal like a second grader. Thank u!!!!!


	14. chapter 14 — iudicium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: HOT TEA HOT TEA

It was the day of Robert’s trial. Rickon was nearly giddy with glee. He wore his brightest colors, a brilliant blue tunic with a red cloak and brown boots, and a crown loaded with gemstones of every color of the rainbow. Snowstrike hung at his side in a bedecked scabbard. Arya rolled her eyes at his appearance but he didn’t pay her any mind. He was too happy to be executing Robert today. He had to control himself when he began to skip gleefully down the hallway.

He processed into the hall with Arya and took a seat on the throne, drumming his fingers on the armrest impatiently. Tommen was seated with his family in the front row of benches, looking very anxious in a deep red vestment and blouse. His mother stood next to him, ramrod straight, dressed in dark gray clothes with her hair done up all nice. Rickon also noticed Tommen’s cousin, Shireen. She wore a beautiful, bright yellow gown with lots of lace and a circlet of deer antlers. He scowled. He didn’t like how she gave off waves of color.

Robert was dragged up into the convicted’s podium. He looked bedraggled and a little skinner than he had been when he first arrived, which pleased Rickon greatly. He stared up at Rickon with absolute hate. The gash in his forehead had not been tended to and was a mean red color with hints of sickly green. Rickon, who sat in his throne in a lounging position with his legs draped over the armrest, gave him a helpless shrug and smiled at him.

“We all know what this man did,” Rickon said, beginning the trial. “We all saw what happened. He committed treason against the crown by insulting the reigning king as well as previous kings and royal family members. Any man who disrespects the Stark name in the likeness of what this man did deserves a lifetime in prison or his head on a spike.” Rickon looked over and was pleased to see that Tommen looked sick. “Can the prosecutor please come forward to testify against him?”

Arya descended the steps and took her place in the prosecutor’s podium, looking tall and regal in her dark gray and white garments.

“Like King Rickon said,” Arya began, “what Lord Robert did was treason. It is against the laws of the Seven Kingdoms to talk in such manners about any reigning monarch or their family members.” She sent a withering look at Robert. “My point is simple and strong. What Robert did was treason.”

“Thank you, Princess Arya,” Rickon said, smiling. “Will the defense come forward, and after that Lord Robert can speak for himself.”

No one moved. Rickon saw Cersei cough and stare at her feet. Rickon had set it up perfectly, the message was clear; whoever dared defend Robert would be charged with treason as well.

“If no one will speak, I guess then that’s Lord Robert’s queue to speak,” Rickon said, turning his head to look over at him. “Do you plead guilty or innocent?”

“Guilty!” Robert roared, straining against the manacles that bound his wrists together. “I take back nothing I said! Nothing!”

Rickon was silent as the hall erupted into an uproar. He hadn’t been expecting this sort of response. He had been prepared to have Robert plead innocent in hopes he could take the black, but this just made everything better, really. Rickon stood, and the noise ceased.

“You plead guilty?” Rickon said. “Even though you would have had a chance of freedom if you plead innocent. You could take the black and become a man of the Night’s Watch.”

“I’d rather die than serve you any longer,” Robert spat, spitting at Rickon’s feet. “At least I’ll be with the Old Gods and not here on this hell on earth.”

Rickon regarded this for a moment, before looking sideways at Theon, who was standing nearby. “Prince Theon,” Rickon said, a slow smile creeping across his face. “Fetch me a block.”

Several minutes later Robert was tied down onto the chopping block, straining against his chains. Theon and Arya stood nearby, both with expressionless faces. The Baratheons sitting in the front row of the benches looked restless and pained. Rickon slowly drew Snowstrike, the white Valyrian steel catching in the sun. 

“Lord Robert, do you have any final words?” Rickon said, spinning Snowstrike absentmindedly. Robert’s face was red. “Die someday soon,” he snarled. “For the good of the realm.” He lowered his head, exposing his neck.

Rickon regarded Snowstrike for a long moment before suddenly hacking down with Snowstrike, the blade slicing easily through the skin, bone, and muscle. Robert’s head fell to the floor with a wet thump. Blood spurted from the stump that was once his neck, splattering Rickon’s face and neck.

The hall buzzed with murmurs of horror. Rickon raised Snowstrike away from the body and began to clean it with his cloak, his eyes half-closed. He had expected to feel much more satisfied with the kill, but he still felt as apprehensive as he had before the trial. He felt like he still had to kill someone to feel satisfied. His gaze wandered over to the Baratheons, who were either ramrod straight in horror or hiding behind their hands. Shireen had her arms wrapped around her father and was sobbing into his side; Renly was looking to the side and looking like he was trying not to cry. Rickon felt his unsatisfaction ebb away a tiny bit when he saw the Baratheon’s misery. 

Would eliminating each Baratheon give him satisfaction? He pondered this as he sat down on the throne and watched as Robert’s remains were cleaned up. He sort of hoped the blood would end up staining the stones at the foot of the steps. 

For now, he had to send them home. If each of them started mysteriously dying, people were bound to get suspicious. He excused everyone and went back to his chambers, and ran into Theon on the way. 

“I’m very proud of you, Rickon,” he said as they walked together down the hall. Rickon noticed he was only a few inches shorter than him. “Not many boys your age would be willing to cut a man’s head off.”

“I’m not a boy,” Rickon retorted. “I’m a king.”

“You don’t know what they call you, then?” Theon said, stopping. Rickon halted as well, alert. “They call me things?” Rickon said, embers of anger sparking in his stomach. 

“They call you the Boy King,” Theon said softly. “The Mad Wolf. They say that you’re cursed, that black magic was placed on your family. They claim you are a cursed king.”

“I am not cursed,” Rickon scoffed, beginning to walk away. “There has just been obstacles. Many obstacles.”

“Whatever you say, my lord,” Theon mumbled as he walked away. 

Rickon pushed his door open and set his crown down on its velvet pillow, exhaling deeply. He wanted someone to talk to. He lay down on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Why did he feel so unsatisfied? He had killed the man that had started this betrayal. Would he have to kill Tommen to finally feel good about himself? He closed his eyes and studied that possibility. He didn’t think so. The more he thought about it, the more one thing became clear.

He felt...lonely. 

A/n:  
OOOOO SIS THE TEA IS H O T!!!!!!!!!!!  
I’ve never gotten this far in a fan fiction before. Perhaps it’ll be the first one I complete!!! haha :D


	15. chapter 15 — lapis iactu disci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: history class with stone mom

“It’s not fair!” Tommen wailed, hurling another stone at the wall. It broke and fell to the ground, amongst the other stones Tommen had been chucking at a garden wall for the past half hour. It was the only thing that seemed to calm his nerves a little. He bent down and picked up another rock, throwing it. It bounced harmlessly off the wall this time.   
Shireen sat behind him on the steps of the garden, rolling the hem of her dress between her fingers. Her face was stained with tears as well, and when she looked up, her brown eyes were a lighter shade — something that happened often when she cried.   
“Father didn’t have to die,” Tommen’s sniffled, throwing another stone. “Rickon could have talked to him. I could have talked to him.”  
“Uncle Robert wouldn’t have listened-“ Shireen said tentatively, but Tommen cut her off.   
“Maybe he would’ve!” He shouted, throwing two rocks this time. Both of them shattered. “What kind of gods let him die?”  
“Don’t be questioning your faith now, Tommen,” Shireen pleaded, wringing her hands. “You need faith at this time.”  
“Should I worship a god that kills my own father?” Tommen snarled, turning around with a rock in his hand. Shireen threw her arms over her head, but Tommen hurled it among the shrubbery nearby instead.   
“Rickon wouldn’t do something like that,” Tommen said, sitting down heavily in the gravel. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to grasp his feelings. “He wouldn’t. H-He wouldn’t hurt a fly. I knew him. I thought I knew him.”  
The gravel crunched as Shireen walked over to crouch next to him, her bight yellow skirt billowing out like flower petals around her. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you didn’t know him well enough,” she said softly. “People can turn on a dime, Tommen. He’s sensitive. He basically watched his whole family get massacred in front of him. Of course he would react like this if someone insulted them like that.”  
Tommen was quiet for a while. He didn’t want to believe that Rickon was changing. He had always known the boy side of him, scared of warfare and so quick to affection. This older, manly side of him scared Tommen. The death stares that Rickon gave him terrified him.  
“Now that Robert is dead, that means Joffrey will be Warden,” Tommen said. “Joffrey as Warden will be even worse. He’ll declare war on Rickon, surely. Rickon hates war. He gets scared. He told me. He’ll kill Joffrey too. And then I’ll be Warden, and then he’ll kill me, too, and then he’ll just kill all of us-“  
“Shh, peach blossom,” Shireen soothed him as his voice began to break. She let him lean on her as he cried for a while. When he fell silent she spoke.  
“Technically, my father should be Warden,” she said carefully. “If we’re going by proper succession, Robert’s brothers still live. Robert only got the title of Warden because he was King Eddard’s friend and King Eddard gave him the title, and then made my father Lord of Dragonstone instead. If Grandfather died under normal circumstances, my father would still be Warden either way. It shouldn’t go to Joffrey that quickly.”  
Tommen thought about that for a moment, resting his head in Shireen’s lap. “What’s the line of succession again?” He asked in a small voice.   
Shireen sounded pleased. “Well, since your father is dead the title should go to my father. When he’s dead, it should go to Renly, and then onto Renly’s children, if he has any at the time. If he doesn’t, I think the title will try to go to me, since Stannis is still the eldest even in death and his children are the most eligible. But since I’m a girl, it’ll just then go to Joffrey.” She scrunched up her nose. “I think that’s how it goes. But I may be wrong — it might be instead that the title should try to go to Stannis’s children before it tries Renly. I could be wrong.”  
“How do you remember all that?” Tommen asked. Shireen smiled sadly. “Long hours alone in the libraries at Dragonstone,” she explained. “Lots of time with nothing else to do.”  
“What else do you know?” Tommen said, genuinely interested. He just wanted to get his mind off of his father. “I want to hear more about the Starks. Do you know anything about them?”  
Shireen raised an eyebrow. “Hasn’t Rickon told you all about them?”  
“I didn’t ask,” Tommen explained. “I thought it would make him sad.”  
“Well, I can tell you about his siblings,” She said, carding her fingers through his hair. “Robb was the oldest legitimate son. King Eddard had another bastard son — I can talk about him later, if you’d like. A lot of people said that Robb and his mother had a crazy strong bond and were basically inseparable. He wouldn’t go through with a command without checking that it was okay with Queen Catelyn first. He became king when he was sixteen, though my calculations may be off. He died when he was seventeen, I think...but anyways, he died when he was invited to a wedding at the Twins between his uncle and a Frey girl, and he was accompanied by his mother-“  
“I want to hear about Sansa,” Tommen interrupted. “What was she like?”  
“A lot of people have said that she had the most beautiful voice in all the Seven Kingdoms,” Shireen started. “A bunch of people wanted to marry her. I think Theon did at some point, too. But she ended up marrying Ramsay Bolton...”  
Tommen’s eyelids drooped as he took in all this information. He realized how little sleep he had gotten in the past few days. Eventually he let his eyes close and he drifted into, for once, a peaceful sleep.

A/n:  
The fact that I could be done with this whole fan fiction by the end of the weekend makes me angry. Why do I have to be so productive????


	16. chapter 16 — cor contritum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: i thought u loved me u was my baby, my fuckin cinnamon apple

Almost a week after Robert’s execution, it was raining. Tommen had been spending most of his time with Shireen, knowing they would be separated as soon as they set off for Winterfell. They took long walks around the gardens and went down to the beach sometimes too, just talking. Tommen had never had someone (save Rickon) to talk to like this. He felt a little bit more relaxed. Even amongst all of this stress and shunning, he still had a rock he could grasp in the middle of the storm.  
He had voiced his concerns to Shireen over and over again, and today as they sat in his room, Shireen brought up the idea of approaching Rickon with the information.  
“No!” Tommen said for the thousandth time, pacing the floor. Shireen was seated on the end of his bed, dressed in a simple gray-and-pink dress. She sat forward, her intelligent brown eyes glittering.  
“It’s the best thing you can do at this point,” she said. “Rickon might listen to you. If he doesn’t, voice your concerns to Arya as well.”  
“But then he’ll think I’m being too demanding,” Tommen fretted. “He’ll dislike me even more.”  
“You’re overthinking this too much,” Shireen groaned into her hands. “If you won’t do it, I’ll go up and do it myself.”  
“No! No,” Tommen said, waving his hands frantically. The last thing he wanted now was for Shireen to get killed running her mouth. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it, okay? Don’t you dare do it yourself.”  
Shireen sat back, obviously satisfied. “Great. Let’s go get an audience.” She slid off the bed and marched towards the door.  
“Now?” Tommen stammered, scampering after her. She looked over at him as she walked. “Of course,” she said. “The sooner he knows about Joffrey, the better.”  
“Oh, okay,” Tommen said, feeling a little bit stupid. He followed her until they ran into a messenger.  
“Excuse me, sir,” Shireen said, sliding in front of him and smiling sweetly. “Could you be so kind as to ask the king for an audience?”  
The servant looked surprised to see Shireen and Tommen standing there. “I’ll try my best, my lady,” he said, hurrying away.  
About a half an hour later Tommen stood in front of the Iron Throne, in the very spot his father had been murdered, staring up at the king who swung the sword.  
Rickon looked like a murderer, too. His hair was as tousled as ever and he wore a crown of seven spikes atop his head. Some of the blood had still not been cleaned from his skin and so he had small brown spots all over his neck like freckles. He had bags under his eyes and he leaned his cheek lazily on his hand, scrunching up his face.  
It was just the two of them in the room, as Rickon had excused Shireen as well as the two guards who were standing at the door. Tommen felt very nervous.  
“What are you here for?” Rickon asked, making Tommen jump. “To plead that your father was innocent? To ask for his remains so that they may be buried up North? His head is on a pike outside, and I’m not about to give it up.”  
“I’m not here for any of that,” Tommen said, surprised at how strong he found his voice to be. “I-I’m here for something else. Your grace, my brother Joffrey cannot become Warden of the North.”  
“Why, is he sick?” Rickon said dryly, and Tommen felt a flutter of reassurance. The old Rickon was in there somewhere, he just had to try and dig it out.  
“No, sire,” Tommen replied. “He...he is unfit to rule. Even as a prince he tortures prisoners and kills subjects who displease him. To have him as Warden will mean that he will declare war on you and the South. And I know you don’t want that.”  
The last line slipped out without Tommen realizing it, but he was thankful when Rickon didn’t reply to it. Instead he leaned forward, removing his cheek from his hand. “Who will rule if I deny him the right to rule?” He questioned. “Are you aiming to rule the North?”  
“No!” Tommen protested, a bit too forcefully than he intended. “I’d never want to rule anything. Lord Stannis is rightfully the heir to the Wardenship.”  
“Lord Stannis?” Rickon echoed. “Why him?”  
Tommen dived into the complex family lineage that said that technically as long as Roberts till had living brothers they were eligible for the Wardenship. Tommen wasn’t sure if he was imagining things, but Rickon looked a little impressed.  
“I see,” he said, standing. “But...you do know that either way, Joffrey would still not be eligible for the Wardenship?”  
Tommen’s brow furrowed. “How?” He asked. “He was my father’s eldest son.”  
Rickon’s eyes widened a little. “You don’t know,” He said softly. “Oh, no no one told you?”  
“Told me what?” Tommen said, his heart beginning to beat faster. “What’s wrong?”  
“Tommen...” Rickon said lightly, descending the steps until he stood in front of him, just a few feet away. Tommen found himself shivering. That tone was how Rickon used to speak to him. What was so important that he had reverted to his old self?  
He leaned close, so close that his breath nearly stirred Tommen’s curls. “Tommen,” he said again, “your parents aren’t Robert and Cersei. They’re Cersei and your uncle Jaime.”  
Tommen’s eyes flew wide. “Uncle Jaime?” He said, bewildered. “No, that can’t be true. That’s not true. Cersei and Jaime are twins. They never...they didn’t...”  
“Cersei kept the true parentage a secret so Robert could have heirs,” Rickon murmured. “Tommen, it’s a well-known fact. Has your Uncle Jaime ever seemed very friendly to you?”  
“Well, y-yes, but...” Tommen had to accept the fact that Rickon was right, in a way. Jaime was the one family member besides Shireen that showed him infinite affection. If Rickon was right, wouldn’t that make Tommen...a bastard?  
“No,” Tommen said, shaking his head. “No, no, no, that can’t be right. That’s not true. My mother would never do anything like that. That’s...that’s gross! I-I’m not, I’m not...”  
“Tommen, It’s the truth,” Rickon said, reaching towards him. “I’m sorry.”  
“It’s not true!” Tommen shouted, yanking his arm away. “You’re lying. You’re lying just so you can see me hurt.”  
Rickon’s stormy eyes widened. “No, Tommen, I-“  
“Just shut up!” Tommen said, the tears bubbling up in his eyes. “Shut up! You’re the worst! I thought you loved me, Rickon! What did I do to you? What did I do? All I gave you was my affection, and what do you do? Turn around a murder my father? What the hell did I do to you that Ramsay didn’t?”  
Tommen turned and ran out of the hall, the only sounds being his pounding footsteps and his sobs that choked the air out of his lungs.

A/n:  
Holy cow. Chapter 16. I published chapter 12 yesterday. How did I write four chapters on the span of 24 hours when I went to freaking six flags in between?  
This has to be my favorite chapter so far. I love this kind of romantic drama, the “What did I ever do to you” kind. Tommen went as far as mentioning Ramsay, that’s when u know the tea is hot sis!!! btw - I’m surprised someone hasn’t asked about this already. all of the chapter titles are in Latin, and they just kind of correspond to the chapter topic. The titles in act 2 are more complex.

BONUS: the end of this chapter reminds me of that 1 vine where the guy is standing outside his car and yelling “I thought u loved me! U was my baby! My fuckin cinnamon apple”


	17. chapter 17 — lupos cerui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: my 2 favs talk to each other

Rickon stared after Tommen, feeling like he wanted to jump from his balcony again.   
What kind of king was he, making Tommen cry? He hated seeing Tommen cry, he realized. It had been so long since he had felt anything but hate for the blonde stag. Robert’s words about his sister had made him blind to everything else. He remembered feeling those angry feelings ebb away as Tommen had approached the throne, twisting his hands together in the way he did when he was nervous.   
Rickon sat down heavily on the floor, holding his head in his hands. He had figured it all out when Tommen had walked into the room. He had wanted to apologize to him. He had wanted to hug him, to feel his hair against his face, to drink in his sweet honey-fresh air smell. Arya was right — Tommen really did fancy him, even through all of this.   
He climbed to his feet and rushed after Tommen, knowing he probably went outside somewhere. He searched most of the gardens but found nothing. At one point he gazed over a garden wall towards the kingswood. Could he have run out there? He was swinging his legs over the wall to jump over and follow him when someone began yelling his name.   
“Wait! Wait, Rickon, wait.”  
He looked back and saw Shireen hurrying towards him, her gray and pink dress swishing around her ankles. Her face was worried.  
“Rickon, please wait,” she said. “Tommen told me to stop you if you went after him.”  
“Why?” Rickon demanded, jumping down from the wall, resulting in slight pain in his recently-healed legs. “I-I have to go apologize.”  
“Tommen doesn’t want to talk to you,” Shireen said softly, stepping closer. “He needs some time to cool down.”  
“But I messed up,” Rickon said, hanging his his head. “I need to tell him I messed up.”  
“Yes, you did mess up,” Shireen said with unexpected fierceness. “Tommen has been moping and feeling terrible all week. He’s been so confused, trying to figure out why you’ve been such a jerk to him.”  
Rickon shrank back into himself, feeling awful. “It wasn’t him,” he mumbled. “It was his father.”  
Shireen’s brown gaze softened. “I know,” she said. “Tommen is quick to conclusions and scared of being left out. He needs someone who will always support him and never forget about him.” She reached out and lightly touched his arm. “You can be that person, Rickon,” she said. “I know you can.”  
“How can you be so sure?” Rickon said bitterly. “All you know of me is what your family tells you.”  
“I know because the boy I saw dying on the floor of Dreadfort wouldn’t leave Tommen behind,” said Shireen unexpectedly. “The Dreadfort changed you, but it wasn’t as bad as it could be. You could have turned out exactly like Ramsay had been like before he met your sister.”  
Rickon blinked. “The Dreadfort...you were there? At Dreadfort?” The realization hit Rickon like a brick. “You were the servant! The one who helped me! Why did you never tell em who you were?”  
“The glory of your rescue belonged to your sisters,” Shireen said. “I escaped when you did and I didn’t want to bother your sisters anyway. What I’m saying is, Tommen deserves only the best. He’ll come out of the kingswood when he feels better. Please don’t go out and look for him. He’ll be angrier than he is now if you do.”  
Rickon looked back out at the trees, weighing his options. He could disobey Shireen and go out and find Tommen now, but face the consequences of Tommen’s eternal wrath if he did. Or he could agonizingly wait for Tommen to come out of the woods, hopefully with a more peaceful mind, and talk to him then. His feet were screaming at him to jump the wall and bolt into the woods, but his heart was whispering in a much quieter voice: Let Tommen cool down. Shireen is right. Let him be.  
“Fine,” Rickon said miserably, turning and walking slowly out of the garden. Shireen followed, and they walked back into the Keep in silence.

A/n:  
IM ACTUALLY CRYING CHAPTER 17 WHAT I DONT WANT THIS TO END


	18. chapter 18 — quaestionis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: I try at the end to give Jackie muse

However much Rickon wanted to go out and find Tommen, it still sucked that he had to be king, too.  
Especially when that meant boring interrogations. He was sitting in a council room with Arya on his left and Margaery and Loras sitting across the table. They had mostly recovered from their trek here and were able to hold long conversations now, though Margaery did most of the talking.  
“So, what happened when the rebellion captured you?” Rickon asked. Arya was acting as a scribe and was writing everything down on a scroll. Margaery glanced at Loras and then she began her tale.  
“It was early in the morning,” she said. “I like to wake up early and take long walks through the gardens before the rest of the court wakes up and I have to be inside all day. The gardens at Highgarden are beautiful, it seems unjust not to spend time in them each day. Anyway, I was walking through our fruit orchard when I heard loud bangs coming from beyond the walls. I hurried over and climbed atop some stones so I could see over the wall, and I saw men all in brown and white running through the streets, wielding crude weapons an wooden shields. They massacred as they went, killing men and throwing women and children into a sort of corral. I rushed back inside to tell everyone what I had seen, and my grandmother sent a force to try and push back the rebels. However they had surrounded Highgarden and practically besieged us.  
“We stayed in the castle for most of the day and into the night. The sounds of fighting never ceased outside, and so none of us really slept. It was around noon of the second day that they broke down the gates and stormed the castle. Loras, my father, my grandmother and I were hiding in the smallest tower and some of our most loyal guards died trying to protect us. One of the servant girls hiding with us jumped out of the window. I don’t know what happened to her.

“They brought us outside the city to where their leader was staying in a tent. I heard his name only by eavesdropping: Maxnar Hill.”

Rickon leaned forward with interest. “So he’s a bastard from the Westerlands?” He said. “Do you know who his parents are?”

Margaery furrowed her brow. “I think I overheard that he was a bastard of the Hawthornes, but I could be wrong.”

Rickon nodded, making sure Arya wrote it down. “Carry on.”

“Maxnar said that if we didn’t do what he wished he’d kill all of the women and children they captured and then burn Highgarden,” continued Margaery, “and we had no choice but to comply. They loaded us on the back of a wagon full of hay and bound our wrists and ankles together with manacles. We were fed twice a day, just mostly bread and a little dried fruit. It wasn’t unbearable, just unpleasant. Riders who came past would spit at us and jostle the wagon. Loras and I are young, so we did better with all the movement, but my poor grandmother took ill after we left Highgarden.”

“Where did you escape from?” Rickon asked. 

“Bitterbridge,” Margaery replied. “They had run into a roadblock and were trying to move it — I think it was a series of fallen trees? It caused a big disruption, as we were traveling at night and the riders in front hadn’t seen them, so their horses tripped over them and crushed several men. No one was paying attention to the wagon, and Loras had managed to take one of my earrings and make a pick with it. He picked our locks and was going to free my father and grandmother, but my father said that Grandmother wasn’t well to travel and that he would stay with her. He also said that he would make up a story that we were yanked from our chains by hedge knights wanting some company.”

“And then you walked all the way from Bitterbridge to King’s Landing?” Rickon said, impressed. “How did you manage to outrun the rebellion?”

“They have over ten thousand men,” Margaery explained. “It’s not easy to move that many men at once. It took them over two months just to get to Bitterbridge. They were also mentioning wanting to make a detour to try and secure Storm’s End, since Renly isn’t there. However I doubt they’d go out of their way or split up. Their final goal is King’s Landing.”

“Where do you think they are now?” Rickon asked.

“I’m sure they’ve reached Tumbleton by now,” Margaery said. “Once they realized we were missing they probably made haste. If I were them, if I lost two members of an elite family, I’d hurry to finish my job so I could look for them.”

“I see.” Rickon said. “Thank you so much for this, Lady Margaery. You can stay at the Red Keep for as long as you’d like, at least until the rebellion is defeated and you can return to Highgarden.”

Margaery smiled sadly. “Of course. I pray to the Seven my father and grandmother are safe.”

Rickon excused them and was going over the notes with Arya when there was a knock at the door. Rickon turned to see Daenerys in the doorway, with one of her dragons behind her — Rhaegal, if he remembered right. The juvenile dragon was nearly too big to fit through the doorway.

“I’m sorry about Rhaegal,” she said. “Viserion stole his goat and now he’s moping.”

Rickon smiled. “It’s fine. What do you need?”

“I’ve come to talk with you about the Hand contest,” she said. “I swear I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping, but I heard part of your conversation. About the rebellion. I think you should postpone the competition until after you deal with the rebellion.”

“Why does everyone keep telling me to do that?” Rickon said, immediately defensive. “I’ll need a Hand to help me defeat them.”

“Let Arya help you with that right now,” Daenerys said. “Do you really want to exhaust yourself picking a Hand and then turn around with the rebellion pointing a sword at your face?”

“I can deal with the rebellion later,” Rickon said, standing. “We have more than enough men to defeat them.”

“But, Rickon,” Arya said. “You heard that Margaery said. They’ll sack the city and kill civilians before they get to you.”

Rickon took a deep breath, trying not to get annoyed. “I said I’ll deal with them later,” he said. “Margaery even said it took them two months just to get to Bitterbridge. It’ll take them at least another month to get to King’s Landing.”

“Rickon-“ Arya called, but Rickon was already storming out of the room. His mind was buzzing with too many things — the competition, the rebellion, Tommen’s fury. All he wanted was his sweet sister’s soft arms around him to hold him like she did when they were younger, when Bran would steal Rickon’s toys and Rickon would run to her crying. He remembered the kind of perfume she used, the overwhelming smell of sweet pea. He used to think it was obnoxious, but now he’d do just about anything to smell it now. He wanted her light, jingling laugh back too. 

He was king...shouldn’t he have anything he wanted?

A/N:  
Oh my god, chapter 18. I am physically dying why does this have to end?  
Couldn’t post this last night because I watched Infinity War with my sister...but I came home early from school because we had a shooter threat or something so i finished this up before I have to start studying for finals. Fun! This was a little bit of a filler chapter but the end was fun to write. We only have 3 more chapters! Then book 2!!!!


	19. chapter 19 — propitius eris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternate title: we see just how sadistic the author can be

Tommen buried his face deep into Shaggydog’s fur, sobbing loudly. He had found the direwolf as he was running away, and he had let the big animal lick the tears off of his face and collapsed into a ball of emotional messiness. Shaggydog’s wet nose ticked Tommen’s ear.  
“Good boy,” Tommen said, breathing in a shaking breath. He looked up at the sky and figured he had been out here for at least five hours. It was getting dark. He figured he’d better be getting back to the Red Keep now.   
“Hey, boy,” Tommen said, standing up. He had never been much of a dog person — big animals scared him — but he had taken a liking to the big fluffy walking pillow. “Do you think you can lead me back to the Keep?”  
Shaggydog barked louder than the bell at the Sept of Baelor and rose to his massive paws, trotting away into the bushes. Tommen followed, careful not to loose sight of Shaggydog.  
After a while of walking the towers of the Keep came into sight and Tommen put a hand on Shaggydog’s flank. “Thanks, boy,” he whispered. “Now go back to the kennels. You’re probably hungry.”  
Shaggydog gave him a sloppy kiss on his cheek and bounded away, his pawsteps causing nearby shrubs to shake. Tommen took a moment to compose himself before slipping into one of the gardens.   
He wasn’t surprised to find Shireen sitting on the steps of the garden, looking bored as she scanned the pages of a thin book, her cheek squished into her palm. His feet crunched against the gravel and she looked up, her face brightening.  
“There you are!” She exclaimed, jumping to her feet and throwing her arms around him. “I was about to go in after you. When you said you’d be gone for a little while I didn’t think you meant five hours!”  
“Sorry,” Tommen said. “It was getting late, and I’m kind of hungry.”  
Shireen nodded. “Also, um...Rickon came looking for you.”  
Tommen’s eyes widened. “Rickon? Why? To drag me back to the dungeons for yelling at him?”  
“No,” Shireen said. “He was...sad. He wanted you to come back. He wanted to apologize, Tommen. He would have gone if I hadn’t stopped him.”  
“No,” Tommen said. “You’re lying to try to make me feel better.”  
“Tommen, listen for once,” Shireen pleaded. “He really did-“   
“Stop disappointing me!” Tommen said, feeling his eyes burn with tears again. He turned and ran out of the garden but didn’t go back into the kingswood. This time he veered to the left and scampered down the rocky path down to the beach.  
He had seen the beach from the garden walls but never gone down. Rickon had promised that he would how him the beach sometime, but Robert had arrived before they got the chance. Today it was deserted, save for a lonely figure standing barefoot with his feet in the sand, the water barely washing over his toes. Tommen halted, digging his feet deep into the sand.  
Rickon turned with just his head, his hair illuminated in a sort of halo by the sun. His face was incredibly sad; tears glistened on his cheeks and his blue eyes were dull. It wasn’t that dangerous wolfprey look this time — this was pure, utter sadness, one that had swan under the surface of the king’s emotions for months, until the slightest bit of those emotions evaporated, leaving this sadness to break the surface.  
Tommen thought that Rickon had to be the saddest person he knew.  
“Rickon,” Tommen said, but it came out as a whisper. He felt guilt in the pit of his stomach. He had caused some of this sadness, he knew. He felt his heart break a little as Rickon looked back out to sea.  
“Has anyone ever told you the full story of the Greensight Massacre?” Rickon said in a soft voice. “No one but my sister and I have ever heard it. The people only know the short version.”  
Tommen took a few tentative steps forward, the sand grabbing hold of his shoes and causing them to slip off; he didn’t mind. The sand was comfortably warm underneath his feet.  
Rickon kept looking out at the sinking sun. “Bran had been acting differently,” he said. “We all noticed it. We just thought it was a side effect of his powers — loosing your emotions. But now he was expressing an emotion — hate. He would snap at us and give us these stares of absolute hate. He would act strange sometimes too. One day at dinner he took one look at Ramsay and just started screaming.”  
Tommen shivered. He tried to imagine Joffrey with no emotions except for hate. It wasn’t really that different.  
“That day no one could find Bran,” Rickon said, even more softly than before. “We just assumed Summer had taken him out into the kingswood. We were supposed to be going out into the city that day to go visit a festival in Bran’s honor — he was about to become king, about three days later. Ramsay and Sansa had gone to their room to change and I was already ready, walking the halls to go fetch them. Arya was in the kennels, making sure Nymeria was tied up so she wouldn’t break out.”  
Rickon paused for a long moment. “In all the stories, people say that a servant found them after they were dead and rushed to tell us.” He swallowed so thickly Tommen could hear it. New tears slipped down his face.   
“Those stories are wrong,” Rickon said, his voice trembling. “Like I said, I was going to go fetch them. I saw Bran crawling into their room from down the hall, and I ran towards him, wanting to know where he had been. I cracked open the door and-“ his voice broke, and he swallowed again, pinching his lips together. “I watched the whole thing,” he whispered. “I watched it happen from the door. I saw everything. Everything in perfect detail. No one had to tell me what had happened. Bran was lying on the floor, writhing around, and he had warged into a servant and was controlling him. Ramsay pushed Sansa out of the way and Bran stabbed him in the neck, and he fell down. Ramsay grabbed Bran’s ankle as he tried to go over to Sansa and tripped him. Bran twisted back around and stabbed him six times in the face.”  
Rickon’s shoulders were shaking violently now. “Sansa was bent over Rhoswen and screaming at Bran to stop. Bran stabbed her in the back, and yanked Rhoswen from her hands. He stabbed her again in the leg and made her watch as he bashed Rhoswen into the wall until she was dead.” Rickon bit his lip until his teeth turned red with blood. “Sansa saw me watching. She screamed for help, I heard it. But I didn’t do anything but watch as Bran stabbed her eighteen times in the chest until her green dress had turned red.”  
Only then Rickon turned around to look at Tommen. His face was a mess; his lips were red with blood from biting them so hard, his cheeks were shiny with tears, and his face was screwed up against them.  
“I killed my sister, my brother-in-law and my niece, Tommen,” he said softly. “I could have saved them. Sansa left this world thinking that I was a coward, to scared to save her as she had saved me.”  
Rickon took a step towards Tommen. “Tommen, Ramsay died without me ever forgiving him for what he did to me at Dreadfort. He was only doing it because his father said so. He begged me for my forgiveness and he went to his grave thinking that I still hated him.”  
Rickon’s face was pleading. “Tommen, I wish I had forgiven Ramsay. Their deaths haunt me every night and I keep thinking that if I had only forgiven him the gods would have looked upon us with favor and not cursed Bran. If there was one thing I could do as king, it would be to forgive him.”  
He hesitated, and then tentatively reached out and took Tommen’s hands in his own. “Tommen,” he said softly, “I will die unhappy just like Ramsay did if you do not forgive me for what I have done to you. I was terrible because I was blinded by vengeance. I realized how horrible I was to you. I say this not as a king, but as your best friend.”  
He brought up his hand to put it on the side of Tommen’s face. “Will you ever forgive me for what I have done?”  
Tommen stared into Rickon’s Tully-blue eyes, blinking away tears of his own. He knew Rickon had been terrible, murdering his father and making him an outcast at court — but deep down inside both of them, they still loved each other as much as they had that first night when Rickon had found Tommen in Sansa and Ramsay’s room.  
In quiet response, Tommen rose on tiptoe to place his lips on Rickon’s.  
His lips tasted just as he remembered. Warm, with a delicious taste that reminded Tommen of candy. Rickon put his hands on Tommen’s hips and pulled him closer. Tommen put his hands on either side of Rickon’s neck and kissed him until he had to pull away for breath.  
Rickon’s eyes were alight with relief. “I’m taking that as a yes,” he said wearily, bringing Tommen in for a tight hug. Tommen held him tightly, never wanting to let go. Tommen didn’t belong up north. Up north he was scorned for his quiet wisdom and skittish acts. But down here, down south, in Rickon’s arms — he was exactly where he belonged.   
“I love you,” Tommen said, tilting his head back to look up at Rickon. “No matter what stupid things you do, I’ll always love you.”  
Rickon pulled him closer back into a hug. “Thank you,” he said, his voice quieted and broken by tears. “Thank you.”

A/n:  
I really couldn’t care less about finals so y’all are getting a completed fanfic tonight whoop whoop


	20. chapter 20 — effugium

Tommen awoke the day after Rickon’s plea for forgiveness feeling happier than he had been in a while. He and Rickon had walked back to the Keep together and Rickon had promised that he would choose Tommen as his Hand tomorrow.  
“Now that I know,” he’d said, “why wait?”  
So Tommen had breakfast sent to his room, wanting Rickon to see him only when he got to the ceremony. Even though it was only at noon, it felt like ages until he walked into the Great Hall to sit in the first row of benches along with Daenerys and Tywin.  
It took nearly half an hour of waiting, but finally the doors opened and Rickon came in in all finery, wearing a dark indigo tunic, a loose white shirt underneath and a long, light pink cape that trailed behind him like flower petals. His crown was silver and had pink morganites set into it. Only Tommen knew why the king wore so much pink today — it was because he was in love.  
Rickon caught Tommen’s eye and smiled at him, his blue eyes shining. Tommen smiled back. Today, he’d be with his beloved forever, serving him until the day he died. He watched was Rickon sat down on the Iron Throne, seemingly radiating happiness.  
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a voice that was so much different than the one he used at Robert’s trial. “Today is a day of great jubilation. Today I chose my new Hand of the King.”  
He beamed in the direction of the bench. “Lords and ladies, the Hand of the-“  
His sentence was cut off by a loud whistling sound outside, and then every window shattered as a huge, flaming ball of fire cascaded down from the ceiling.  
The hall filled with screams as the doors were forced open and countless men in dark colors charged inside, yelling and wielding crude weapons. Tommen whipped around as more of the invaders crawled in from the windows. Another catapulted fireball smashed into the ceiling, causing several rafters to fall and glass to be spread everywhere.  
Tommen was knocked to the ground by some fleeing person and watched from the floor with awe as Daenerys’s three dragons took to the air, beating their large wings and roaring high-pitched shrieks at the rebels. Some of them took one look and turned tail, but most just shouted louder and ran faster towards the throne.  
Tommen twisted around and climbed to his feet, his heart beating fast. Some of the rafters had fallen near the throne, shrouding it in a cloud of dust. He ducked in between fleeing people, hurrying towards the rubble. He crawled under some broken rafters until his hand landed on someone’s foot, and he looked up to see Rickon’s frightened eyes staring back at him.  
“Hey, hey, I’m here,” Tommen whispered, putting a hand on the side of Rickon’s face. “It’s okay. We’re going to get you out of here-“  
“Tommen,” Rickon whispered, grabbing his wrist. “Tommen, I don’t want to be king anymore.”  
Tommen blinked. “Rickon, your people need you, especially now. Come on, we have to get-“  
“Run away with me, Tommen,” Rickon pleaded. “Please. We can live far away, maybe in Dorne if you’d like. I don’t want to rule anymore. Please.”  
Tommen stared at him for a bit, pursing his lips. Running away from court life, the only thing he knew — was that the right thing to do? He was about to deny it when he looked back over at Rickon’s frightened eyes and knew what he had to do.  
“Of course, moonshine,” Tommen whispered. “In fact, we can go farther away from here — we can go up North. I know the North well. We’ll be safe there. We just have to get out of here first.”  
“We have to get Shaggydog, too,” Rickon said as he shakily stood up. “We can’t leave without Shaggy.”  
Tommen nodded and he crawled back out of the rubble. The hall was no longer full of fleeing people but fighting people — the dark-cloaked rebels were now locked in combat with those loyal to the crown. Tommen saw Arya seemingly dancing across the floor, leaving blood and rubble in her wake. Theon and his scary sister Yara were hacking at rebels, flanked on all sides by fierce Ironborn soldiers. Loras, Margaery’s brother, was back-to-back with Renly, swinging with grace at the invaders. Daenerys’s dragons breathed fire on the rebels and they turned to ash.  
“Come on,” Rickon urged, tugging at Tommen’s sleeve. Tommen tore his gaze away from the fight and followed Rickon out into the dark halls of the Keep. By the time they had freed Shaggydog from the kennels, the Red Keep was smoldering, set on fire by the angered rebels.  
Tommen caught Rickon looking forlornly at the Keep. He put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Arya will be a fine queen,” Tommen whispered.  
Rickon shook his head. “It’s not Arya I worry about,” he murmured. “I am leaving the place where Sansa is buried. I wish there was another way, so I would not have to leave her, but...” he trailed off.  
“I’m sorry,” Tommen said softly. “Perhaps one day when Arya has children you can come back and see them again. One day, I promise.”  
Rickon looked back at Tommen. “One day,” he said. “And then the gods will reunite me with my sister.”  
Tommen gave him a quick kiss on his cheek, took his hand, and they took off into the kingswood.

A/n:  
This is a really crappy last chapter but the epilogue will make up for it. And all the cheesy, sappy ending stuff will be in the epilogue too!!


	21. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things get cheesy

The Red Keep was in turmoil. 

Theon looked around the Great Hall, which had been turned into an infirmary because so many people had been wounded. It was the day after, and they were still finding dead in the rubble. Most of the towers had collapsed and many priceless works of art were destroyed. The Great Hall itself was a mess — the ceiling was open to the sky and the rafters lay in a large heap in the corner. The Iron Throne was still intact, with only a few dents in it. But the biggest loss was in its people.

All the Lannisters and Baratheons were dead. Tommen and Rickon had both disappeared, and were announced dead. Loras was wounded, as well as Yara, and were both across the way in cots, sleeping soundly. But the biggest casualty lay at Theon’s feet.

Arya had been caught in the ribs by a wayward spear and fallen. The wound was small but very deep; the maesters claimed that there was nothing they could do for her. So now Theon, Daenerys, and Margaery sat helplessly by her side as she took her final breaths.

Arya took a shuddering breath and looked over at Theon. “Rickon?” She mumbled.

Theon shook his head. “Arya, I’m sorry. Rickon died. Tommen, too.”

Daenerys stared at her lap. “We never found out who the Hand was,” she whispered. “If the king dies and there is no immediate heir, doesn’t the crown go to the Hand?”

Arya slowly turned her head to look at Daenerys. “He chose him,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Rickon chose Tommen. He told me.”

Theon’s heart sank. “Even so, there’s no Baratheons left...”

He trailed off as Arya’s gaze became glassy. “Sansa,” she murmured. “Sansa, I see you...”

She took a shuddering breath and was quiet.

Margaery sobbed and buried her head in her arms. Daenerys pursed her lips and looked away. Theon blinked away tears as he leaned forward and closed Arya’s eyes.

“Rest in the Seven, Princess Arya Stark of the Seven Kingdoms,” he whispered. “May the gods look over you.”

Theon got up after a while to go check on Yara, too shaken to stare at Arya’s still frame. He passed the pile of rafters and stopped when her heard something that sounded like a cough from inside. He turned toward the pile, and sure enough, there it was again — a cough, and the a sneeze.

He hurried over, and whoever was trapped inside began to cough more fiercely. “Hello?” Theon called. “Is anyone in there?”

“Yes,” The voice croaked. “Help.”

Theon used his shoulder to force the top rafter off of the pile. He saw someone’s foot sticking out, and heaved another rafter off.

“Theon, what are you doing?” Said a voice behind him. He turned to see Daenerys looking at him quizzically.

“Someone’s trapped under here,” Theon said. “Help me get them out.”

Daenerys nodded and whistled to bring her dragons over. They flapped down from where they were sitting behind the throne and helped nudge the rafters off. Eventually Theon could grasp the person’s hands and haul them out from beneath the rafters. He nearly dropped them in shock.

It was a young girl, with long blonde hair and a round face with baby fat still clinging to her cheeks. A gray scar ran down the left side of her face and down onto her neck. She looked up at Theon with big, brown eyes.

It was Shireen Baratheon — the last living Baratheon in Westeros, and heir to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms.

 

“All hail Her Grace, Shireen of House Baratheon and Florent, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Shireen shivered as the crown of golden antlers was placed upon her head and the gathered crowd cheered her name. She raised her chin and looked out at her new subjects. The Red Keep had been hastily repaired for the ceremony, temporary wooden slabs in place for the ceiling and windows. She didn’t care if it made the Keep look artificial — it was hers now. 

She dismissed everyone to the feast but kept Theon, Yara, Daenerys, Margaery and Loras in the throne room. She had a few important announcements for them, after all.

“I thought I would go ahead and get all of the titles out of the way,” Shireen said. She felt so small next to them; most of them were two heads taller than her. “Since the lack of titles got us all into this mess in the first place. Lady Daenerys, will you be my Hand of the Queen?”

Daenerys blinked. “Me? But I’m a woman.”

“I am as well,” Shireen said. “I suppose we can keep the trend. Do you accept my offer?”

Daenerys curtsied, smiling. “Of course, Queen Shireen.”

Shireen then turned to Theon and Yara. “I know that you have a kingdom of your own to rule, but I’d like to make Yara the temporary Master of the Royal Navy and Theon temporary Lord Commander of the Queensguard.”

Theon’s eyes widened and Yara smiled. “Of course, your grace,” she said, sweeping into a bow. When Theon didn’t follow, she elbowed him hard and he dropped quickly into a bow as well. Shireen giggled and turned to Loras and Margaery. 

“Loras, I’d like to make you my Royal Ravener, as well as part of my Queensguard,” she said. “You will send my messages so the maesters will be free to tend to the wounded. And Margaery, I would be honored if you were to be my personal handmaiden.”

“I am honored, Queen Shireen,” Margaery said. “Of course I accept.”

“As do I,” Loras added, bowing. 

“Great,” Shireen said, “because I need these sent out tonight.” She produced three small slips of paper from her skirt and handed them to Loras. 

“Who are they for?” Loras asked, squinting at the names written on them.

“My good friends, Devan Seaworth and Edric Storm.” Shireen said. “And my, um...other good friend, Sebastian Frey. Sebastian is lord of the Twins, and Devan lives at Dragonstone with his father, and Edric lives in Lys, in Essos, with his guardians.”

Loras rolled up the strips of paper. “I’ll get the letters to them as soon as possible.”

“There’s also this one,” Shireen said, handing a slightly larger piece of paper to Loras. “Please make sure that one gets to Jon Snow, the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

Loras’s brow furrowed. “Jon Snow?” He echoed. “Why him?”

Shireen blinked. “You don’t know?” She said. “Rickon and Tommen are still alive. They went up north, past the wall.”

This encouraged gasps from the gathered. “They’re alive?” Yara cried. “But that means that your crown is in danger, my queen.”

Shireen looked down, her face betraying nothing. “I do not intend to give my crown back to Rickon,” she said. “He ran because he was a cowardly king who made a coward’s choices. He took my cousin with him. If he wants his crown back he will have to fight for it.” Pins and needles tickled the queen’s fingertips. 

“How do you know they are gone?” Theon said. “You were crushed by the rafters when they fell, and none of us saw them escape.”

A small smile flitted across Shireen’s face. “I’m guessing you haven’t visited the kennels in the past week?”

 

Tommen was cold, cold like he had been when he lived up North. In Winterfell it had been an annoying cold, something that persisted even when you were inside under a heap of furs. He used to hate the cold just because it was cold. But now he was warm, warmer than he ever was when he used to live here.

He and Rickon had escaped past the Wall at Eastwatch-By-The-Sea. They had traveled for two days before finding a small wildling village that was kind enough to take the refugee king and prince in. They hadn’t dared reveal their true identities, even if they were wildlings. They had been living in a small cabin on the outskirts of the village for a while, perfectly content.

Tommen sat on the bed and watched Rickon as he leaned on the doorframe, gazing out at the village as the wildlings woke up. He was drinking something steaming from a cup. As if he sensed Tommen’s gaze on him and turned, his blue eyes wide and curious.

He already looked so much healthier. His skin had regained color and his cheekbones no longer stuck out. The cold north air had done him well. He smiled, and it made his eyes bluer. 

“What are you looking at?” He teased.

Tommen blushed. “Just you,” he said.

“Just me?” Rickon said, setting down his tea and walking over, smiling. He clambered up onto the bed and Tommen giggled as Rickon bowled him over, peppering his neck with light, ticklish kisses.

“S-Stop,” Tommen laughed. “That tickles.”

“Now I only want to do it more,” Rickon said, grinning. “I love hearing you laugh.”

He kissed Tommen again and he laughed, reaching up and pushing Rickon away. “You loon.”

“Last I checked, I thought you were the loon who followed me here,” Rickon said, sitting back and smiling stupidly again. 

Tommen smiled. “I followed you because I wanted to see you happy,” He said. “I barely got to see you like this when we were in King’s Landing. It makes me happy that you’re happy.”

“I’m going to die, that was so cheesy,” Rickon declared, falling back on the bed. Tommen giggled again and crawled on top of him, staring down into his dark blue eyes.

“I love you, Rickon,” he said. “To the ends of the earth, I’ll always love you.”

A/n: juuuuuudas priest we did it. This is the first actual legit fanfic I’ve ever finished? Aaaaaaa????? Enough gawking tho onto cheesy shit  
Ok so when I first started this it was at the beginning of summer I’m pretty sure, or at least that’s when the idea to write this came to me. I was so excited to start this but really didn’t know what to expect from an audience. Rommen isn’t a very popular ship and I only know of 1 other person on here (besides Jackie) that writes it. Speaking of friends, ooo!!!! Ofc role reversal aus have been around forever but I hadn’t seen one like this before — where the Starks switch places with the Baratheon/Lannister’s. So I decided to make one with my GoT otp. Rommen was originally introduced to me by my best best best bff in the whole entire fuckin world, Finn, the fuckin angel, and within about 12 hours of knowing it existed I had started writing this. And OFC I hAD to put some good ass fuckin RAMSAN UP IN THIS BITCH,,,,,because Jackie would have actually strung me up by my neck if I didn’t + Ramsan is a holy thing. But anyway yeah that’s the backstory to this ig,,,,  
cheesy shit now uh so I want to thank everyone who reads this and comments on it??????????? Your comments literally make my day and make me dance around the room squealing like a schoolgirl. I fuckin love you guys and I always love reading your comments!!!!! and ofc the biggest thank you to Finn and Jackie the LIGHTS OF MY LIFE U MAKE MY LIFE GO BRIGHT BITCHES ILY !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

edit 12/22/18: changed Sebastian’s surname from Flowers to Frey.


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